


Starlight Vomit

by Salt00



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: ;), Almyra (Fire Emblem), Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Culture, Dragons, Elements of other Fire Emblem games, Excessive Stargazing, Falling face first into having friends for the first time, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt/Comfort, If it isn't mentioned in canon it's Free Real Estate!, Medieval Medicine, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Platonic Cuddling, Poisoning, Sickfic, Spoilers, Starvation, Terminal Illnesses, The Crests are to blame, Vomiting, Whump, Worldbuilding, Xenophobia, both literally and metaphorically, myths and legends, spoilers for all routes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 191,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salt00/pseuds/Salt00
Summary: Crests are status. Crests are strength. Crests are power.Claude doesn't get it. Sure, the healing his crest gives him is handy. But no one talks about the drawbacks. As far as he's concerned, Fódlan's obsession with crests is overrated. His Crest of Riegan isn't worth the way it burns through his body. It isn't worth the way it skitters beneath the surface of his skin. The itch it thrums through his blood during battle isn't worth the retching he's left with hours later.... He's not the only one suffering, right?
Relationships: Golden Deer Students & Claude von Riegan
Comments: 773
Kudos: 959
Collections: Well-written whump for all fandoms.





	1. Silver Blood

_Khalid was twelve the first time his crest activated._

His night started off well. All alone on the rooftop. Just him and the starry sky.

He loved the night. Night was when the world went quiet. Night was when no one bothered him. Night was when no one sneered at him, or insulted him, or threw rocks at him. Night was when he didn’t have to act perfectly in father’s court or avoid hateful glares in the streets. The night belonged to him. It was calming. Peaceful. Staring up at the sky, his endless whirlwind of thoughts quieted by the unending score of lights.

He dangled his feet off the side of the building, looking out over the city. Right now it was father’s city. One day it might be Khalid’s.

If he got the throne, if he became king, he’d change everything. He’d prove that he didn’t deserve to be hated — he would prove that he was just as Almyran as everyone else. He’d make people respect outsiders just as much as insiders. He didn’t know how he’d manage it, but he _would_ succeed where father failed. Somehow.

No one wanted him to be the next king (and if they said they did, they were lying). No one wanted a _spineless coward foreigner_ on the throne. But it didn’t matter what the people thought or wanted. The only one that could name the next ruler was the king, who happened to be one of the only two people that actually _liked_ Khalid. If he proved he was a worthy heir, father would chose him. Yet if he failed to prove he could lead Almyra well, father would have no choice but to overlook him for a better candidate. _A good king always puts the people first._

Not that there _were_ any other candidates. None that Khalid knew of, at least. Every ruler of Almyra since the First King himself were born with a King’s Mark branded somewhere onto their body. Khalid’s was on his left shoulder blade. Father’s was on his forearm. There had never been a ruler without a King’s Mark — it was approval from the First King. A sign of fate. Supposedly. Khalid wasn’t sure how much stock he put into the tradition. It was just a mark, just a frilly circle. So what if the mark matched the emblem on every flag of Almyra — there still wasn’t anything special about it.

Usually, so Khalid had been told, there were a handful of individuals branded with the King’s Mark in every generation. So long as someone had a drop of royal blood there was the chance to be born with the mark. Khalid didn’t know of anyone else with a King’s Mark. No one wanted him to be their king — so where were the alternative choices? Any child born with a King’s Mark would surely be paraded about as an heir that was a _real_ Almyran. There were plenty of factions chomping at the bit for a full-blooded Almyran heir to rally under.

He sighed, taking in a deep breath of the crisp night air. He came outside to get _away_ from his thoughts, not to stew in them. He looked across the city. Sitting up so high, the capital looked small. It still sprawled as far as he could see, but from his perch no one could touch him. The few people milling about during the night were the size of ants. They couldn’t see him, couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t hurt him.

He flopped onto his back. He liked looking at the stars much more than the city. The stars had to be his favorite thing. They made him feel small and insignificant. Like all the struggles he went through weren’t that bad. Like all the obstacles in his future were little hills to be climbed, not the impossibly tall mountains that they actually were. Looking up at the stars gave him hope. Surely, surely he could achieve his tiny dream. Surely he could build a home for himself and for every outsider without a place to belong.

He liked all of the stars, but his favorite was the Guiding King star. It was the brightest in the sky. It was silly — it was a very important star to Almyra. Everyone liked the star. But it felt like _his_ star. Legend stated the Guiding King star was actually the first king of Almyra. That meant the star was his distant ancestor. The legend said the king loved his people so much that he provided light for them every night, even the nights where the moon left the sky to rest. That he would watch over everyone. Father always said a good king cared for all of his people, no matter who they were. Everyone said the First King was the best king, so that must mean he was a good king. And if he was a good king, that meant he didn't hate Khalid.

_He wasn’t stupid. He knew the legends were just that: fake stories. Stars were stars — a star couldn’t be a king. Mama said in Fódlan they just called it the Northern Star. Nothing special. But it was nice to pretend that someone who wasn’t his mama or papa cared about him._

He pursed his lips. Every night he spent watching the stars, he told himself he’d stop his childish habit. He was old enough now to know the stars couldn’t hear him, if they even cared. Every night, he caved into habit and spoke.

“I found a cool book yesterday,” he whispered to the stars. “It’s like the other one I have, the one filled with herbal remedies. But this book isn’t about healing, it’s about hurting.” He bit his lip, eyes dancing between constellations. “Apparently cherry pits have poison in them. A bunch of fruit do. It’s a very deadly poison when made right — but it’s super easy. Just gotta boil a bunch of them. Well, it’s a little more complicated. The book says it tastes like almonds, but I’m not going to try it out. But you probably already knew all that, you probably know everything.”

Resting his hands behind his head, he kicked his feet back and forth off the ledge. “Remember that one guard I told you about? The one that held my head underwater? He’s still around. I didn’t tell father. Father’s always saying I need to take care of myself, so I will. But everyone’s so much bigger than me.” He hated how small he was. Most boys his age were taller and stronger. Everyone in the whole world pointed to his mama's blood as to why he was runty, even though they should all know better. “If I can’t be strong, I'll be smart. And I'm very smart. I’m gonna poison him.”

“I’m not gonna kill him though. The book has a ton of poisons. I don’t want to kill people, even if they want to kill me. I will if I have to,” and he had, “but there are a lot of poisons that’ll only make him _wish_ he was dead instead. I’ve already got most of the herbs I’ll need in my secret garden. A lot of herbs I use for my healing salves can be used to hurt too.”

He sighed. It was stupid. No one was listening. No one cared. But it still felt nice to talk. The stars never replied. But that was okay. They never insulted him. They never belittled him, not even when he shared his impossible dream.

He wished the stars would come down to the world below just as they did in the old legends. Maybe if they visited, they’d take him with them. Then he’d be one outsider among thousands. He wished they would talk back to him, just once. He had so many questions. He asked them time and time again, but they never replied. Did the stars even look down? If Khalid was a star, he wasn’t sure he’d bother looking down. The world below must look so dim. Whenever he looked up at the bright moon and the bright stars, he wondered if his future might be bright too. If he had a chance to be a fraction as bright as a star.

“Mama got into a fistfight with Nader earlier today. She won, of course. She always wins, because she's tough and strong.” _Unlike him._ He scratched at his arm. It was a hot night for the season. “It was pretty funny. I wish people didn’t call her a coward. I don’t understand why people care where someone was born.”

He scratched roughly at his arm again. Frowning, he looked down. Long red streaks were carved into his arm. He rolled his shoulders, skin feeling too tight.

…Had it gotten hotter? 

He bit his cheek. The itch was getting worse. It wasn’t just in his arm — it was everywhere. A prickling just under his skin that was growing sharper. 

Did someone poison him? Or did he manage to poison himself with his admittedly poisonous garden? He racked his brain to pair the symptoms with anything he knew. It wasn’t itching powder — the itch was different. Whatever it was had to be a delayed poison, crossing out most possibilities he knew.

He shuddered, vigorously raking his nails down his neck. Beetles skittered under his skin, ants crawling on top. Sweat beaded along his forehead. His shirt was too hot, too rough against his skin. He curled in on himself, trying to muffle a whimper. He tucked his knees into his chest as he panted, fear bubbling up with the heat.

The unnatural feeling reached a crescendo. Heat curled in his belly. Silver light sprang into existence behind him. He jerked, nearly falling off the roof in his haste to turn around. He really hoped it wasn’t someone coming to finish him off.

He gaped at the brilliant crescent hovering before his eyes. Heat radiated from his skin, the itch turned into something tingling and buzzing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not when the moon itself shone in front of him. The light etched the shape into his eyes.

He reached out a shaking hand. Fingers met no resistance against the moonlight. His hand dipped through the silver moon, nothing but a faint buzz at his fingertips.

Then the light began to dim.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Take me with you!”

The moon didn’t answer. It faded away.

Khalid stared at the afterimage still burned into his eyes. His hand remained outstretched. He pressed his lips together, blinking rapidly. Little gasps sputtered from his lips. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t.

He let his hand fall to his side. He shivered, the heat he felt before lingering only as a ghost along his skin.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared. His mouth wobbled and his vision grew blurry. He looked up, up at where the moon hung back in the sky.

He wouldn’t cry.

Why would the stars want him anyways? Why did he think he had a chance? No one ever wanted him. The night sky was no different. He had no one to blame but himself. He knew better than to get his hopes up.

He crawled back down to his bedroom window, slipping into his room as he always did. He fumbled for a journal, the first one he could find, and snagged a stick of graphite. His vision was still blurry, but that was okay. He knew it was from the bright moonlight. Maybe it blinded him. He sniffled.

He didn’t bother lighting a candle. He drew the crescent as best he could. He drew it again, unsatisfied with the first. He drew it over and over and over again. He couldn’t get it perfect. He ignored the drops that were getting his journal wet, determined to draw the image he could still perfectly envision.

Twin waxing crescents, attached by five lines. He sniffled again, his lines not straight enough. He couldn’t get the curves right.

He swallowed, nausea twisting through his stomach. He rested his head on the open book, biting down on his hand. He couldn’t hold back a sob. Then another sob broke free.

_Even the stars hated him._

With a jolt, the nausea doubled. He shot out of his chair and raced for his chamber pot. He retched, nothing coming up. He squeezed his eyes shut, retching again. More tears ran down his cheeks. He hacked bile into the pot, his mouth filled with a taste both sickly sweet and like metal. It reminded him of the taste of blood.

He opened his eyes, staring down at the glimmering in his chamber pot. _Glimmering._ Rubbing his eyes, he spat into the pot again. A mix of saliva and glimmering liquid came from his mouth.

He sat there, staring. He didn’t understand. He pushed his chamber pot under his bed. If the liquid was still there in the morning, then this whole night couldn't have been a dream.

He slipped under his blankets, still shivering. He didn’t dream.

When morning came, he pulled out the pot. Sure enough, the glimmering liquid was still there. Like liquid silver. Like moonlight. He poured the spoonfuls of smooth bile into a slim vial. It was very pretty.

The vial proved he hadn’t dreamed everything.

For weeks he scoured the palace library for any sort of explanation. He found nothing. Nothing in the science section. Nothing in the magic section. Nothing in the medical section. Nothing in the religion section. Not even a mention of anything similar in the myth section.

He stopped talking to the stars. He still watched them, still laying out some nights to stare up at the sky. It still brought him comfort, even if they didn’t want him. He ached to ask questions. He knew there would be no answer, so he held his tongue.

A little over a year after the incident, he gave the vial to his mother as a birthday gift. He fashioned the vial into a necklace. It wasn’t gaudy, but it was pretty. Mama seemed to like it, wearing it often.

He pushed it from his mind. He had more important things to do, more important schemes to complete.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Khalid was fourteen the second time his crest activated._

Training with Nader was good. It was never easy. But it was good.

Khalid liked Nader. Nader was one of the only people that tolerated Khalid. Nader saved his life more times than he could count, both personally and vicariously through his teachings. Even if he couldn’t fully trust the man, he could trust that Nader wanted him alive.

With the way the man took to teaching, sometimes it was hard to remember that.

“C’mon kiddo, you can do better than that!” Another arrow sliced a thin cut across Khalid’s cheek.

He rolled away from another arrow. The problem was that he had no cover. His environment was a flat plain. All he had was his bow, his arrows, and his wits. Nader was big. Nader was strong. Nader was old and experienced and a renowned general. Complaining at the unfairness was a waste of time, both out loud and mentally. Life wasn’t fair. He knew that. It still grated how easily Nader toyed with him.

He jumped back as another arrow nearly hit him.

_Right._ His environment was level dirt and short grass. Khalid had already wheeled around so the sun was in Nader’s eyes — that did nothing to stop the man. There was nothing usable in his environment. He returned a shot, missing entirely as Nader easily stepped aside.

Khalid’s arrows were blunted; they’d still do decent damage at a direct hit, but it would be very difficult for him to manage anything debilitating. Considering he couldn’t get off a _glancing_ hit, or even any hit at all, it didn’t matter. Nader on the other hand was equipped with fully sharpened steel arrows. Perks to being a master with a bow.

Another arrow sliced across his shoulder, cutting his shirt but not drawing blood.

An idea came to him. All he needed to do was distract Nader. No simple distraction would do. Nader had known him since the day he was born — Nader knew his tricks. Nader had _taught_ him over half of his tricks.

Khalid nocked an arrow, getting ready. He only wanted to do this once.

He watched Nader aim, the man still smirking. As usual. Khalid pulled back his bow string, ready but not yet aiming.

The arrow zipped towards him and Khalid moved. Not to dodge the arrow. Instead of nipping at his hip, the arrow plunged into his thigh. He bit back a strangled cry, clamping his teeth shut and forcing himself to focus.

Nader’s smirk vanished, traded for a guilty wince. The older man began to jog over, eyes fixed only on Khalid’s leg. He didn’t see Khalid’s smirk. Khalid aimed and fired. 

The moment he loosed the arrow, all air punched from his lungs. In that moment, every drop of blood in his body became molten lava. Bow clattering to the ground, he tried to escape whatever was hurting him. Stumbling backwards he tripped over nothing and landed hard on his rear. Digging trenches into the earth with his fingers as he arched his back, uncontrollable shudders echoed through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut as fire enveloped him, licking at cuts and bruises.

Just as fast as it happened it was gone. He was left panting on the ground, phantom heat still churning in his gut.

Nader’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. He braved the courage to open his eyes, looking to his mentor for answers. Nader had never looked so shocked.

“Are you alright, kiddo?”

Swallowing roughly, Khalid nodded. “I’m fine. Nader, what was that?” In that moment, Khalid felt like a child again.

Nader’s expression twisted. “I was hoping you would know. You gave off a flash of light and fell to the ground.”

Khalid just shook his head.

Nader sighed. “I suppose we’ll be taking you to the healer either way.” His confusion slipped away, replaced with a harsh look. _Uh-oh._ “Don’t think that little _stunt_ of yours is going to go unpunished.”

_Right._ There was still an arrow stuck in his leg. As soon as the adrenaline wore off it was going to hurt. Then he caught the red smudge on Nader’s hand.

“I got you!” He pointed at the mark his blunted arrow made, having drawn a small amount of blood. “I finally hit you!”

Nader raised his eyes to the sky. “I thought I taught you to run _away_ from arrows, not towards them. You know that never would have worked on a real enemy.”

Khalid knew that. He didn’t care. His grin couldn’t be diminished. “A real enemy isn’t _you_ though. I hit you!”

Nader sighed again, rolling his eyes. He smiled though, ruffling Khalid’s hair. “You sure did kiddo. It was a good shot too — you aimed for my bow hand. Smart.” Nader’s smile grew teeth, and Khalid knew he’d made a misstep somewhere. “Heh, we’ll have to tell the story to your mom and pops!”

“No, you can’t!”

Nader laughed. “You should’ve thought of that before!”

He slumped. “Mama’s gonna kill meeeee…”

“Alright, enough fun. Time to get you to a healer. Still feeling alright? Any dizziness?”

He shook his head. 

Nader pulled out a knife and began to cut away at his pants to get to the arrow wound. “Let me make sure this arrow didn’t hit anything vital, and then I’ll carry… you…”

Khalid followed Nader’s gaze. Nader wiped a thumb at the small amount of blood at the base of the wound. Khalid frowned. He expected a little bit of blood to ooze out, but none did. In fact, his skin was flush with the arrow.

Nader wiggled the arrow shaft. Khalid swallowed a sound of discomfort. He could feel the arrow wiggling in his leg. “Kiddo, does that hurt?”

Khalid shook his head. “Just feels weird.”

“...Huh.”

“Do arrow wounds usually look like that…?” Khalid was certain they didn’t.

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

  
  


The healer was stumped. His leg had healed around the arrow. To further complicate matters, all of his cuts and bruises were gone.

“You shot my boy. What did the troublemaker do this time?”

Khalid groaned, sinking his head into the pillow. “Mama! I didn’t do anything to deserve being shot!”

“He ran into my arrow to distract me.”

Mama fixed him with a single raised eyebrow to show how unimpressed she was.

“I mean, it worked…” he mumbled.

She sighed, sinking to sit down on his bed. She ran a hand through his hair. “And now you’ve got an arrow stuck in your leg. Was it worth it?”

Khalid thought about it.

“The answer is no. That was rhetorical.” She glanced down at where the arrow still stuck out of his leg. “Why hasn’t that been taken out?”

He shrugged, forcing Nader to be the one to explain.

Mama tapped at her chin, not nearly as surprised as Khalid thought she should be. “A flash of light? By chance, did the light look like a crescent shape?”

Nader’s eyebrows shot up. “It _did._ How…?”

Khalid’s breath caught. His thoughts went back to that night two years ago. He still wasn’t sure if the night had been real, despite the silver vial his mother wore around her neck. Suddenly the feeling of heat clicked and he recognized it as the same.

And so his mother explained to him and Nader about crests — specifically the Crest of Riegan that he apparently had. She told him what she knew: The crest could heal. Crests were genetic. There were many different kinds of crests. Crests came from Fódlan. Supposedly, crests were a gift from Fódlan’s Goddess (she said this with a very skeptical tone).

Khalid exploded with a fountain of questions. But she didn’t have a crest of her own. Her brother and father did, but not her. Khalid hadn't even known he had an uncle. His mother knew little beyond the basics. 

Khalid was left unsatisfied.

Later that night, he sat on his bed staring up at his ceiling. It felt childish to have assumed the _moon_ came and visited him all those years ago. He was smarter than that.

Nausea welled within him, and he found himself repeating the same thing as two years prior. He retched into his chamber pot, spilling small puddles of liquid silver.

He had a crest. It could heal him. 

He had a crest. It made him vomit.

_Everything had its price to pay._ Nothing in the world was free, healing especially.


	2. Silver Tongue

_Claude was sixteen the third time his crest activated._

Fódlan was new and interesting, and oh so bitterly disappointing. If anything, Fódlan was _more_ xenophobic than Almyra. His only saving grace was that almost no one knew he was from Almyra.

The disdain he experienced was nothing new. If nothing else, the familiarity was almost comfortable. His cunning won him brownie points with his grandfather as he dodged insults and verbal traps with the same ease he dodged daggers and poisons back home.

There was a small roadblock, however. Many of the nobles didn’t believe he was a legitimate heir. The only way to prove them wrong was to prove he had the Crest of Riegan.

In Fódlan, they had machines that could detect crests. With a bead of his blood, the machine lit up with the very same moon he saw four years prior. It wavered before his eyes, a washed out yellow instead of the brilliant silver he remembered.

In what Claude was quickly coming to realize would be a common occurrence, the nobility of the Roundtable were not satisfied. A purple-haired noble, Count Gloucester if he remembered correctly, was the first to declare that Claude must have faked the test. That he’d used someone else’s blood to fool the machine.

So his grandfather took everyone on a hunt.

Whatever Claude expected from the hunt, he was left stumbling in culture shock from the ‘hunts’ they had in Fódlan. They saddled on horses, brought out dogs, and released pre-captured animals to hunt. It was all so artificial, so… easy. It felt unfair and disrespectful to their prey. Not that Claude voiced any of that— he wasn’t stupid. When in Fódlan, do as Fódlan does.

His grandfather explained that he was to hunt until his crest popped out. At Claude’s reluctant explanation that he didn’t know how to activate the thing, his grandfather just rolled his eyes.

Living targets. That was it. Attack a living target with the intention to harm, and his crest had a small chance to manifest.

He felt like a fool. For years, he had put considerable effort into suppressing the strange magic. Despite how curious he was, he’d been left feeling uneasy about it after his two experiences. It was something he couldn’t control and didn’t understand.

He knew magic could go wrong. He knew how horribly _healing_ could go wrong, and his crest healed. He’d seen the results of healers that didn’t know how to use a staff. It wasn’t pretty. There was a reason why Almyra used traditional medicine more often than magical— it took years to learn how to use a staff properly. As interesting as his crest was, Claude wasn’t going to risk flipping his intestines inside out on accident.

His mother mentioned that in Fódlan they didn’t _use_ staves, but Claude didn’t understand how that was possible. How else was a healer supposed to correctly distribute nature’s healing energies without a staff? Claude was in no rush to find out. Maybe he could go his whole life in Fódlan without getting injured…

In the end, his crest appeared after his second arrow. Bright silver, just as he remembered. After so long of avoiding the power, actively searching for it was like a dam bursting. The surprise over the faces of the nobles present was more than enough to make the ensuing mouthful of bile hours later worth it.

Laying in bed, he wondered about the first time his crest appeared. He’d been alone. No weapon in his hands. Nothing to ‘trigger’ his crest like his grandfather said was necessary.

A part of him thought to ask his grandfather about his experiences with his crest. It was hard to find time when the old man was alone to ask. His grandfather wasn’t cruel, but he wasn’t kind either. It was obvious Claude was his last possible choice for an heir (Claude was used to that).

His grandfather could probably answer most of Claude’s questions, but it would also be an admittance of Claude’s ignorance on the subject. So he kept his mouth shut, resolving to figure it out himself. He’d self-experiment with his crest’s healing if he had to. Hopefully he’d keep his organs intact.

  
  


* * *

_Claude was seventeen the fourth time his crest activated. Claude was seventeen the fifth time his crest activated. Claude was seventeen the sixth time his crest activated. Claude was—_

Claude heaved the contents of his stomach into the bucket. Tears stung at his eyes. His stomach rebelled and he heaved again.

Over the course of a single week he had more than doubled the use of his crest. Looking down at the smooth pool of silver in the bucket, he was paying the price. 

It started when a mercenary band saved Dimitri, Edelgard, and him from a group of bandits. In a life or death situations, he learned suppressing his crest was impossible. The crest had slipped out on accident when he struck down a bandit.

Then the mercenary became Teach, _his_ Teach, agreeing to lead the Golden Deer house. Compared to Hanneman or Manuela, they were a slave driver. That was a good thing, considering Claude was already noticing improvements. Hell, it was because of them that the Golden Deer won the mock battle earlier in the day.

When Claude’s grandfather informed him that he was to attend Garreg Mach, he’d done a bit of research on the place. That led to research on the general education system of Fódlan. What he learned was that he would primarily have a single teacher. Unlike his years of tutelage in Almyra where he had a specialist teach him every subject, professors in Fódlan were expected to be able to teach most subjects with competence.

Teach… wasn’t what he expected. Their teaching style was much more similar to Nader’s— a sort of tough love with major hands-on experiences. What few lectures they did give were mostly anecdotal experiences or stories demonstrating a particular strategy. That boiled down to much less book work and much more sparring than the other two classes.

Sparring meant fighting live targets. Fighting live targets meant his crest activated.

On the bright side, he was finally getting a feel for his crest.

He heaved another mouthful of sickly sweet iron into the bucket. _Ugh._ He didn’t know how the others handled this. They were probably just used to it and he was being weak. Yesterday’s training had been joined by the Blue Lions. Claude counted Felix’s crest going off _eight_ times. _Eight!_ Twice in a single bout at one point! Claude had only used his crest twice over the course of the entire day and he felt awful. He kept flip flopping on whether he should be using his crest more or less. In the end his choices were robbed from him anyways, the adrenaline of the mock battle melting his blood and forcing his crest to the surface. 

Everyone swooned over how useful crests were, but Claude wasn’t convinced. Each time he used the damned thing he was left vulnerable hours later. Yet none of his crested classmates so much as grumbled about the downside.

Surely if he used it more he would grow a tolerance to its effects. Hilda and Lorenz never seemed to have any issues dealing with the fallout of their crests. Maybe Lorenz was off somewhere private throwing up too. Lorenz wasn’t in his room after all (thank the Stars. Claude didn’t want anyone hearing him retch). Considering it was still dinner though, Claude couldn’t assume anything.

Claude just needed to catch up. That was all. Everyone else had been using their crests their entire lives. He just needed to catch up.

He spat what he hoped was the last mouthful of bile into the bucket. It was a lot more than he used to throw up.

He would be fine. Everyone else dealt with it, so he could too. It was just his price to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though it goes against every bone in my body, I'm trying something a little different for this fic. Many of the chapters will be short like this one. To compensate I'm going to push the chapters out a lot faster. Expect the next chapter roughly sometime Thursday C:


	3. Silver Lips

_ Claude was seventeen the tenth time his crest activated. Claude was seventeen the twentieth time his crest activated. Claude was seventeen the first time he  _ died. _ Claude was seventeen the thirtieth time his crest activated. Claude was seventeen the—  _

A heavy weight hung over the class as they made their slow trip back to the monastery. Despite their victory, no one was celebrating the death of Lonato. Killing peasants felt wrong. The overhanging mystery and unanswered questions bothered Claude. There were so many  _ whys _ he wanted to ask, but there was no one to give answers.

He silently cursed at how far away Garrag Mach was. He wished the nausea he felt was from his distaste for killing, but that would be a lie. The rolling heat in his belly was something he only felt after the use of his crest.

Despite the drawbacks, he was really beginning to appreciate the mysterious magic. A lucky peasant had gotten a spear right through his stomach. It should have been a certain, if slow, death. Instead he drew back his bowstring and let his blood turn to fire. His arrow had ripped through the man, point-blank through the eye. An instant kill. The curling heat that drained into his stomach had been a relief as his wound knit closed.

It was almost funny in a way. Back home, he’d been given many monikers. One of them had been ‘Undying Prince’. The people whispered about the unnatural prince that never seemed to die. About how the prince could down a bottle of poison with a smile, could shrug off any wound. Nonsense, of course. It was childsplay to swap a poisoned bottle for something else. He certainly hadn’t shrugged off the stab to his side. Just because he knew how to make medical salves didn’t mean he was immortal.

After today though, he earned that title.

He should have died.

A sobering thought.

Now he had to pay up. Usually he had enough time to get to his room before the nausea struck, but not this time. They were still half a day’s march away from Garreg Mach. His stomach churned, reminding him he didn’t have much time left.

“Hey Claude, you holding up alright? You’re looking pretty pale.” Hilda, ever observant Hilda, asked by his side. He held back a groan.  _ Why couldn’t she be lazy like every other time and keep her thoughts to herself. _

“Am I? Huh, weird. I feel fine.” He shrugged. “What about you? How’s your ‘delicate’ constitution? You really let loose today.” He saw her crest activate a total of three times, who knew if it activated more when he wasn’t looking. His only activated twice, and he was just about ready to spew.

Hilda groaned. “I  _ know. _ It was awful! I got all sweaty!” She pouted at him, her eyes expectant for pity. “Why didn’t you let Marianne heal you, earlier?”

Claude waved a flippant hand. “Didn’t want to waste her energy. My crest saved her the effort.”

He got it, healing was different in Fódlan. He knew that now. Healing in Fódlan was used at the drop of a hat. But his skin still crawled at the thought of anyone he didn’t implicitly trust healing him (meaning literally anyone).

Healing in Fódlan came from faith, not from nature. What that  _ meant, _ Claude still didn’t understand.  _ Believing _ in something didn’t generate energy! All energy had to be drawn from  _ somewhere. _ That was magic basics— even he knew that. Pulling energy from nature was a wild and difficult thing to achieve, borderline impossible without a staff to focus it. But it was strong and reliable. Faith magic was something alien to everything he’d ever been taught. The idea that if someone just  _ wished _ hard enough they would feel better was laughable.

He didn’t get it. What was the price of Fódlan’s healing magic?

Even worse, anyone with even a small grain of magic could learn a basic healing spell in less than a month.  _ Less than a month!  _ It took at  _ least _ a decade to be a  _ novice _ healer in Almyra! Even a half-way decent staff-user could accidentally splice someone’s heart to shreds if they so much as sneezed at the wrong time.

In short, he didn’t trust it.

Hilda rolled her eyes at him. “You said that the last time too. Aaaand the time before that.”

He opened his mouth to reply with something probably witty, but instead nearly gagged as he realized he  _ really _ was about to vomit.

“Gotta whiz, I’ll catch up!” He muttered before turning tail and speedwalking into the nearby forest. He ignored the annoyed calls that followed him. No one actually followed him though, so as soon as he was out of line of sight he took off in a dead sprint. He  _ refused _ to let anyone see or hear him.

He stumbled and bent over a fallen log as the bright stream of silver spilled from his lips. It wasn’t just mouthfuls— it poured. 

It just kept coming.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Claude was starting to think he had made a few hasty assumptions. _

“Linhardt! Just the guy I was lookin’ for!”

Linhardt looked up from the book he held, giving Claude a lazy blink. “Claude. I’m a bit busy.” He gestured at the book. “Pester someone else.”

Claude gave him a cheeky grin. “Aw, don’t be such a wet blanket. I thought I’d stop by and welcome the newest recruit to the Golden Deer! Gotta say, I was pretty excited to hear that you were joining our class. It’s great to have a fellow bookworm in our midst!” In truth, Claude had been watching Linhardt for a while. The two had shared many long nights (and occasional all-nighters) in the library together. It was no secret that Linhardt enjoyed researching Crests. The two had occasional discussions about the subject.

Linhardt sighed. “Claude, I’m too tired for your games. What do you really want?”

“You always say you’re too tired though!”

“Because it’s true.” The fact that Linhardt hadn’t switched to ignoring Claude was a good sign. Either that, or Linhardt knew Claude would bug him even more if he tried to ignore him.

“Alright, fine. I’ll go easy on you today. Just got a few mysteries I’m trying to solve is all. I overheard your conversation with Marianne yesterday.”

Linhardt grimaced, giving Claude his full attention. “If you overheard that, then you should have overheard that Marianne asked me to keep that a secret.”

Claude gestured to the otherwise empty library. “Not like you’re telling anyone about her mystery crest that doesn’t already know.”

“Well, I suppose since you already know…”

“I’m just trying to help her out. She seems to think she’s cursed. You’ve done a lot more studying into the topic than me. Is that something a crest can do? Cause someone bad luck?” He’d never heard of a crest causing bad luck, but his knowledge of crests was admittedly poor. Despite how much emphasis the nobility of Fódlan put on them, finding an actual source that talked in detail about them was difficult. Most books just spouted nonsense like  _ ‘Crests are proof of our superiority!’ _

“I’ll only answer that for our normal transaction.”

Claude maintained his easygoing smile. “Fine, fine. It’s only fair, I suppose.” Their usual transaction: a question for a question. Linhardt had plenty of questions about Claude’s crest, plenty of questions Claude did not want to answer. Ah, but everything had a price.

“It depends on who you ask. Though it isn’t a church sanctioned book, I did once read a piece written by a crest scholar about a certain ‘lost crest’. His findings stated that the lost crest brought misfortune down upon any and all that came into contact. Even worse, the book speculated that bearers of the ‘cursed’ crest eventually degenerate into terrible beasts.”

“Yeesh. How reputable is this book?”

Linhardt scoffed. “Not reputable at all. The man had no facts to back up his wild ravings. Clearly the author didn’t know the difference between correlation and causation. Anything negative I’ve managed to dig up about the crest— which isn’t much, mind you— is based in speculation or wild guesses. There is nothing in the realm of reality that says a crest can bring misfortune like Marianne thinks hers does.”

Claude nodded. “Yeah, figured as much. Well that’s some good news, I suppose. Now just to convince Marianne of that…” It  _ was _ good news, though not what he was actually after. What he really wanted to know was what kind of side effects did other crests have? He was starting to think his vomiting might not be as universal as he thought… 

“My turn. What does your crest feel like when it activates?” He didn’t like the way Linhardt’s eyes tried to pick him apart.

Claude grimaced. That was a very personal question. He waved a flippant hand. “Eh, you know. Kinda like a surge heat, then a welling feeling in my gut. I’m sure it’s the same as yours.”

Linhardt raised an eyebrow. “That so? Mine doesn’t feel like that at all.”

Claude cocked his head. “In that case, that’ll be my question: what does yours feel like?”

“Mostly just a tingle. Sometimes I don’t even notice it.” Claude’s eyes widened for a split moment before he wiped the surprise from his face. Linhardt noticed, because that was just Claude’s luck. “That surprises you?”

Internally, Claude cursed his slip-up.  _ Sloppy. _ He shrugged. “I suppose. Mine’s pretty impossible to miss, that’s all.” He tapped a finger at his jaw. “Hm, do all crests feel unique when they activate?”

“I can’t speak for everyone, but likely so. I’ve posed this question to a few people already. Professor Hanneman said his Crest of Indech feels like a faint rush of refreshing water flowing through him. Bernedetta said much the same for hers. Thunder Catherine, predictably, said hers feels like a light thrum of electricity.”

Claude mulled the information over in his head. A ‘faint’ rush, a ‘light’ thrum. His own crest could only be described as  _ intense.  _

“... My turn. Does your crest hurt, when it activates?”

Claude raised his eyebrows. “What brought that question on? Does yours?”

“Those are questions and it isn’t your turn. But I’m feeling generous. No, my crest doesn’t hurt. And I ask, because all the times I’ve seen you activate your crest, you get a grimace on your face. Like it was something you didn’t mean to do.”

_ Did he? _ Damn, he needed to work on that. Claude shrugged. “No, it doesn’t hurt. Kinda burns, but in a good way. My turn. Does using your crest have any drawbacks? You know, like Marianne seems to think hers does.”

Linhardt gave him a long look. Claude knew he wasn’t keeping his cards close to his chest. He was, however, on the cusp of a possibly unwelcome revelation. How could Linhardt  _ not _ notice his crest activating? How could  _ anyone?  _ “I’ve never noticed any drawbacks in using my crest, no.” Claude mentally cursed as soon as he realized he set himself up for Linhardt’s next question. “Does yours?”

Claude shrugged. “I get nausea sometimes. Just a bit inconvenient is all… Well, thanks for our little session. I’m going to turn in early. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” He gave a wink and a wave, casually slipping out of the library. He knew it was out of character to rush off, but he would rather have his mini freak-out in his room. 

At least now he knew why no one else griped about the vomiting.


	4. Silver Slumber

_ Claude was eighteen when he lost count of how many times he’d used his crest. _

He felt half-dead as he dragged himself to class. He knew he still looked pale from his night of barfing. He was beginning to get worried.  _ Who was he kidding, he’d  _ **_been_ ** _ worried. He’d been worried since he was fourteen. _

The amount of bile he choked up every time he used his crest was only increasing. He filled half the bucket the previous night. It was absurd to remember that at one point he didn’t even vomit enough to fill his hands.

There was also the crazy insanity that had been Miklan the week prior. The bandit had been  _ consumed _ by the hero relic. Just remembering it made his insides twist. He’d been impatient to get Failnaught ever since he learned of the legendary weapon— now he wasn’t so sure. Sure, his crest should protect him from turning into a monster, but something didn’t sit right with him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to take the risk that his crest might be defective, that his crest might not prevent him from degenerating into some sort of beast.

“Did you sleep at all?” Lorenz sneered. “Your appearance is nothing befitting of one of your station!”

Claude groaned and sunk his head onto his desk. “Lorenz, I’m really not in the mood today.” Couldn’t he have  _ one _ day of a break? They had class Monday through Saturday, and the past two Sundays Teach swept them off to far flung battlefields to fight practice battles or mop up bandits.

“Being tired is Linhardt’s shtick, not yours Claude,” Leonie piped up, snickering.

Claude waved a hand, not bothering to pull his head from his desk. “Yeah, yeah. Got wrapped up reading and forgot to sleep, like none of you haven’t done the same,” he lied. He’d actually gotten more sleep than usual, having gone to bed early (rather, went to vomit and then never went to dinner). Despite that, he still felt the strong tug of fatigue trying to drag him to an early grave. It was half miracle and half bullheaded force of will that he got out of bed at all.

He yelped awake some time later when Hilda slammed a book down right beside his head. “Wake up, sleepyhead! If  _ I _ don’t get to sleep in class, neither do you!”

Claude groaned, heart in his throat. He leaned back and cracked a smile he didn’t feel. “I was just resting my eyes, calm down.”

Hilda scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Uh-huh, right. You were totally out of it. You better feel lucky. After Lorenz failed to wake you up, the professor was benevolent and let you sleep through class. It’s lunch now.”

Claude blinked. “I— what?” Had he really slept that long? He didn’t even notice falling asleep in the first place.

“Yep. You’re surprisingly hard to say no to when you’re passed out. Gotta admit, you’re pretty cute when you’re asleep. Like a baby deer,” Hilda cooed.

Claude pushed back his embarrassment at falling asleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually fallen asleep around other people. Sure, he sometimes took quick cat-naps, but he never let himself fully fall asleep. He wasn’t sure if it was a sign that he trusted his classmates, or if he had been just  _ that _ exhausted. He wasn’t sure which he preferred either.

“Hey, what’s that?” Hilda asked, pointing at his face. “You’ve got something on your cheek.”

Claude grimaced. He probably drooled in his sleep, just great. He swiped a thumb across his cheek to find wetness to the side of his lips. He grunted, looking down and freezing as he realized it  _ wasn’t  _ drool. Coated on his thumb was a small smidgen of shimmering silver.

Hilda leaned over to get a better look. He scrubbed at his mouth to make sure he got the rest of it and balled up his fists under the desk. “Just some drool,” He lied.

Hilda looked skeptical. “If that was drool, you should see Manuela. Is that paint?”

“Hah, alright fine. Yes it was paint, you got me. Don’t go spreading it around, it’ll ruin my next scheme…” he came up with on the spot.

Hilda rolled her eyes. “I should have guessed. I better not be a target.”

Claude faked a laugh. “You? Hilda, I would never. I don’t have a death wish.” He winked.

She placed her chin on her hands, coy smile threading a chill through him. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen paint quite like that. It’s very shiny. Claude, you  _ know _ I love shiny things.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

She… She wanted some of his vomit. To use as paint. “… I don’t think you want this,” he said before he even had the chance to think of a proper response.   
  
Hilda frowned. “Oh? Guess I’ll just have to tell everyone about how you won’t share your pretty shiny paint. That only you have. Hm, that’d probably ruin any scheme you use it in.”

Well, that confirmed that Hilda (and probably everyone else) didn’t deal with his vomiting problem. Considering she couldn’t recognize what it was. A small part of him had hoped that Linhardt had been lying about having no negative side effects to his crest.

“Nice try,” he said with a small bite to his words. “Not gonna work. It’s, ah, slightly toxic. Plus it doesn’t really dry, uh, ever. As far as I can tell.” He shrugged. “Got busy working with it last night, but I don’t think it’ll work out how I want it to.”

“Come ooooon Claude!” Hilda whined. “Clearly it isn’t  _ that _ poisonous. You had some smeared around your lips! Tell you what, give me a little bit to tinker with too, and I’ll  _ owe _ you.”

Claude pushed himself from the desk. “I’m going to get lunch.” He wasn’t feeling hungry, but he should probably eat something.

“Claude? Claude! Get back here!”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Claude was sick of puking. _

To use his crest more than once a day was to promise a long string of pain. Even using it once was a pain. He wondered if the fatigue he always felt the morning after was from blood loss. The silvery substance smelt and tasted similar to blood after all, and it would explain the dizzy spells.

He’d marked off the possibility that using his crest more would help. It only made things worse. So his next course of action was to mitigate using it as much as possible. It had taken a lot of carefully worded suggestions, but he got Teach to stick him on training his Authority and Flying skills. Things that wouldn’t accidentally trigger his damned crest.

The first week slipped by without incident. His slacking grades finally skyrocketed now that he had time to actually study. Even better, he found he had enough spare time to pursue his other interests. Now that he wasn’t forced to sleep so often, his schedule opened up. It was easy to get by off of four hours of sleep, treating himself to seven hours on the weekend.

The second week went by much the same, until he began to notice the niggling itch under his skin. It was easy to ignore. Small, barely annoying. It didn’t stop the dread building in his stomach. He didn’t want to consider the implications.

Then he found himself waking up some nights. In the dark of his room he became a panting mess, a phantom heat gripping his skin even after kicking off all his blankets. Every other night became every night. Every night became multiple times a night.

The faint prickle under his skin only grew, just as he feared. It made him restless and twitchy. He ignored it.

Three weeks in and his skin crawled like beetles skittered just under the surface. Sitting still was torture. Class was awful, and he knew that some of his classmates took notice of his fidgeting. Even  _ Raphael  _ probably noticed. When he studied in the library, he’d taken to pacing while he read. When he was forced to remain sitting, his legs bounced without his input. 

The discomfort came and went in waves. Sometimes he was fine. Sometimes it was all he could do to keep from squirming on the floor as his joints screamed at him to stretch further and further. Sometimes it was all he could do not to claw his arms off when the itching became too insistent. Sometimes it was all he could do to keep himself from ripping off his clothes when the heat-flashes struck.

Even worse, he couldn’t sleep. His reasonable sleep schedule began to dry up the longer time went on. He caught snatches of sleep here and there, but he just wasn’t tired. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, couldn’t even stay still. He was on his fourth day without sleep and he still wasn’t tired. His thoughts were fried from, well, everything— but they weren’t sluggish from exhaustion. It went against logic.

The problem now was practical training. Teach liked to have sparring at least once a week. He’d managed to wheedle his way out of it or only aim for inorganic targets, but that wouldn’t be possible today. The Golden Deer had a mock battle. Free-for-all, no teams.

He resolved to take it slow. To keep calm. His stance was tight and stiff as he tried to keep a handle on the burning beneath his skin. 

He knew Teach was watching him, knew they were disappointed in his backslide of skill. As the fighting began in earnest, Claude retreated for a vantage point. He kept his steps light and his presence quiet. He hid behind a pillar, slipping into the dark shadow and keeping his back against the wall. He shifted from foot to foot, unable to completely keep still.

Raphael rounded a corner, not seeing Claude. Despite himself, Claude smirked as he raised his bow. His classmate had his back turned. The shaking in his hands stilled as he focused. He took a deep breath. Aimed.  _ It was fine. Just once, just one shot. One shot will be fine. _

Just as his fingers were about to let go, he felt it. The constant heat under his skin turned into an inferno as the familiar shape of his crest illuminated behind him. It  _ demanded _ to be let loose, rising to the surface of his skin. He shuddered, the grip on his bow going lax as he struggled to bury the energy. The arrow fell onto the ground with a small plink.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he struggled with the feeling, clawing for a semblance of control over it. The energy circled through his veins. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Then the silver light of his crescent flickered once, twice, and went dark. Usually his crest’s light faded. This time the light winked out in an instant.

He shook. He took a gulp of air. He cracked a smile. He’d  _ done  _ it. He’d successfully suppressed his crest.

A trickle of something warm ran down his nose.

He whispered a curse and slapped a hand over his face. _ A nose bleed? _ An intense one. Blood gushed from his nose, seeping out from his cupped palm and dripping onto the ground below him. 

He looked down. He choked back a gasp. His lips parted and blood trickled into his mouth. Not blood. Too sweet.

Blots of silver  _ drip drip dripped _ onto the ground. His eyes darted up and around. No one was looking at him. Good.

He fled the training grounds, both hands now cupped over his face. Everyone was in class, so his getaway was easy. 

Halfway to his room he realized he was leaving a trail. Blots of silver made a perfect breadcrumb trail leading straight to him. He cursed. Gritting his teeth, he yanked his yellow cape over his face and held it there, mopping up the still streaming silver. The silver bile stained clothes— he’d need to think of a good excuse for getting a new cape.

He made it back to his room and collapsed, hanging his head into his familiar bucket. It had been nice not seeing the damned bucket for three full weeks. 

He couldn’t remember if he was supposed to hang his head forwards or tip it backwards for a nosebleed. He’d heard people recommend both, but couldn’t remember which method was correct. It was an easy choice though. He hung his head forward and let the silver flow. He didn’t want  _ that _ going down his throat. He wanted it  _ out. _

With sudden clarity he realized he was shaking. His muscles twitched and ached. He was sweating buckets, his shirt already damp. He felt hot, too hot. He shucked off his jacket, pulling his damp shirt over his head and throwing it aside. He couldn’t find the will to care as bright silver smudged the inside as he dragged it past his face. He raked his nails down his arm, trying to scratch an itch buried deep in his skin. His vision blurred and everything doubled.

He spared a thought for regret. Apparently, suppressing his crest was a mistake. _ Lesson learned. _

He clawed at his chest as his breaths came in sharper and pained. He squeezed his eyes shut and wheezed, choking out gasps as the tightness in his chest only wound tighter and tighter. His heart seemed determined to beat out of his skin. Was this what a heart attack felt like? 

He couldn’t breathe out of his nose, gushing rivers pouring out in an unending stream. Each gasp of air was gagged by the substance trickling into his mouth as it trailed down his face. Each breath was punctuated by a spit into the bucket. His heart was pounding and pounding and pounding and it  _ hurt. _

Not for the first time, he wondered if he was dying.

The heat burned like a fever. He could feel it, feel the way his crest begged to be let loose. His bones hummed under his skin, his blood shook with the intensity. 

He gave in and tried to let it out. He focused and tried to call it forth. Instead, he bit back a sob as another gush of silver poured from his nose. He couldn’t do it.  _ No target.  _ He was burning up. He wondered if his skin might catch fire.

He’d activated his crest the first time without a target— why couldn’t he do it now?!

The power of his crest churned through his veins, contained.  _ It’s what he wanted.  _ He couldn’t help but feel bitter. There were no live targets around him to focus his crest on. He couldn’t focus at all. He’d suppressed his crest for three weeks. He should have known there would be consequences. It tried to burn through his skin, tried to ooze out from his pores.

He woke up to the sound of a sharp knock on his door. His eyes cracked open with a painful heaviness. It took him a moment to remember where he was. Blinking, he realized he had fallen over at some point and passed out on the floor. 

“Claude?” Teach’s voice called from outside the door.

“Don’t come in here!” He shouted, foggy mind grappling with consciousness like a wet bar of soap.

“Is everything alright? You disappeared.”

_ Damn. _ He’d skipped in the middle of class. He’d forgotten. 

He needed an excuse. “I might have poisoned myself,” he flubbed on the fly. “Uh, it’s benign though. ‘M fine!” He choked out a laugh, wincing at how ragged it sounded. Damn but his throat hurt.

Teach was silent for a moment. “Should I get Manuela?”

“No! I’ll be better by tomorrow, promise Teach.” He fought to keep his voice from begging.

“...Alright. You know where to find me if you need anything. Anytime, even the dead of night.”

“Right, by the fishpond, got it,” he joked. He heard their steps reluctantly leave.

He let his body go limp, sighing in relief. If Teach was any other teacher, he never would have gotten away with that. His skin still itched and twitched, but it felt manageable now. His heart still squeezed painfully in his chest, but not like before.

He noticed the large silver stain he’d left on the carpet. And the silver stains on his uniform. And the silver handprints plastered everywhere like some kind of monochrome murder scene. And the silver painting his body, the brown-red of dried blood from where he’s scratched open his skin.  _ Damn. _

He needed to clean everything. Instead, he passed out again.

He woke in the morning, shivering and still just as fatigued.


	5. Silver Tears

_ Claude hated his crest. _

The battle of Eagle and Lion. He wanted to be excited for it. It sounded fun, and would be a great chance to get a win in against the other two houses. Instead he was left dreading the aftermath. He had no doubt that his crest would be getting a lot of use.

He’d been right to worry. Teach constantly pushed them forward. Straight down the middle, right between the other two houses. He fired arrow after arrow. Teach put him right up front and center, right behind Raphael and Hilda. They took the hits, he finished the rest off.

Claude never got hit, but his crest didn’t care. Again and again his crest lit up behind him. Useless and pointless, nothing to heal.

They won. Claude got MVP, something he should have celebrated. Instead he just felt a sinking feeling and coiling heat in his gut. Still, he had his part to play. He bragged and boasted, smiling all the while. He suggested a feast between the three houses. Not that his proposed feast was particularly special. Just food from the dining hall. How long had it been since he’d been to a real feast? It wasn’t the same in Fódlan. Out of all the many things he missed from his home, he missed the lively feasts the most.

He ate despite knowing he’d be vomiting it all up mere hours later. He didn’t get very hungry anymore, the once pleasurable experience of eating reduced to a chore. It was odd though. Even when he vomited after eating, the silver bile still came out smooth and thick as blood. There was never so much as a noodle.

In the end, he was forced to excuse himself early when he broke out into a cold sweat. He got odd looks for leaving. He had really wanted to remain as long as possible. But he would rather have people think something was off about him instead of knowing he vomited weird bile after using his crest.

And vomit weird bile he did. It  _ hurt. _ It always did, but he really overdid it this time. He gave thanks to the stars that everyone was still at the feast. He was in no mindset to try and quiet his retching or sobbing.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he heaved. Hot tears poured down his face. He groaned as a sharp pain welled up behind his eyes. He ignored it, trying to push through the process as fast as possible.

Finally,  _ finally, _ he spat his last mouthful of silver. He hung his head in the bucket, taking a moment to catch his breath. He ran a hand across his mouth, glaring at the vomit. With his other hand he scrubbed at the tear tracks along his cheek.

Both hands came away covered in silver.

He blinked down at his hands, trying to understand. Perhaps he shouldn’t have just ignored the burning in his eyes. He grabbed his silver-stained towel from under his bed and wiped his hands clean. Then, with a feeling of trepidation, he reached for the small mirror he’d started keeping under his bed. After the incident where he hadn’t noticed the silver on his lips, he made sure to look presentable after each session.

Twin lines of silver tracked down from his eyes.

He closed his eyes and leaned back, taking a few shuddering breaths. It would never end, would it? Silver vomit, silver nosebleeds, silver tears. What should he expect next? There was no winning, clearly. Don’t use his crest and it builds up. Use his crest and it only gets worse.

He wouldn’t let this beat him. He couldn’t. He had too much to do.

He was fine. It hadn’t killed him yet.

He methodically wiped the silver from his face, using the mirror to make sure he didn’t miss a spot. Despite the rapidly descending fatigue, his eyes almost seemed to shine.

Claude frowned. He brought the mirror closer, squinting at his eyes.  _ Were _ they shining?

No. He had to be imagining things. He finished his cleaning routine and put everything away. He sunk into his bed, pulling his blanket over his head to block out the evening light still streaming into his room. Just as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help but notice… did everything look a little brighter?

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’re out late, Teach,” Claude called softly, carefully pitching his voice to be heard by Teach alone and nothing louder.

Teach froze in their tracks, carefully looking side to side. It was too dark to see, and the angle wasn’t right, but Claude liked to think Teach’s face showed just the smallest amount of confusion.

“You won’t find me down there.” Teach looked up, finally spotting him. He dangled his feet back and forth, patting the empty space beside him. “Looking for some company? I’ll never say no to a stargazing buddy if you’d like to join lil’ ol’ me.”

Their face didn’t shift at all, the only sign that they heard him was the way they tilted their head to the side ever so slightly. As always, it was impossible to read Teach. They said nothing, instead turning to walk away.

Claude sighed, flopping onto his back. He was well practiced at burying the sting of rejection. A small part of him longed to whisper to the stars. It was a habit he hadn’t indulged in since he was twelve, though he often felt the urge. Instead he just silently appreciated them, taking comfort in the feeling of being small and insignificant. 

He tensed as he heard sound come from the other side of the roof. He sat up, sinking into a sturdy crouch and creeping away from the ledge. He brought his hand down to his hidden dagger, ready whether it was a fellow student or something worse.

It was the night of the new moon. The darkness was a double-edged sword: Whoever was joining him on the roof wouldn’t be able to see him, but he wouldn’t be able to see them clearly either.

The hand gripping the roof was quickly followed by a boot. A familiar head of navy blue hair heaved themself onto the top of the roof. They gave a small puff of exertion.

Claude slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh. “Teach! So you did decide to join me!” He peered over the ledge Teach had just climbed. Unlike Claude, they came from the back of the building. “Did you really climb from the ground? There are easier ways of getting onto the roof, you know.”

Their eyebrows lowered ever so slightly as they gave a small look behind them at the drop. “Oh. You’ll have to show me next time.”

Claude grinned, plopping back down. He gestured to his side. “Hope I’m not interrupting any late-night plans of yours.”

Teach took their seat beside him. “Couldn’t sleep. Planned on fishing.”

Claude nodded. “Figured. You ever stargazed before?”

Teach looked up at the night sky. “I’ve looked at the stars, yes.”

Claude tutted, wagging a finger. “Looking at the stars and stargazing are two different beasts. Did your father ever teach you any constellations?”

They shook their head, and Claude launched into a story about some of the constellations. He was interrupted as Teach’s hand shot up, finger pointed out. “That one’s moving.”

“An Astral Messenger…” Claude whispered, his face lighting up in a grin. “That’s some good luck there. Legend says those streaks of light are messengers used by the stars, both to talk between each other and to send messages to the world below.” His grin slipped when he remembered that was  _ Almyra’s  _ take on the phenomenon. “Ah, but I suppose around these parts they’re just called shooting stars. They say if you make a wish as one passes by, the wish will come true.”

“...Is it too late to wish now?” Teach asked, their eyes glued to where the Messenger had been.

Claude shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think you’re supposed to finish the wish before the tail is gone.”

They hummed. “I don’t have anything to wish for.”

Claude side-eyed them. “Nothing at all? Surely you’ve got something. Big or small, you could just wish for your favorite meal to be served at the dining hall tomorrow.”

They laid in silence for a few minutes, staring up at the night sky. It was a comfortable silence, in a way only Teach ever made him feel.

“Teach, can I ask you a question?”

“You frequently do.”

Claude huffed a laugh. “I suppose I do. What does your crest feel like when you use it?”

“Linhardt asked me the same thing.”

“Ah, he’s been holding out on me then. He never said a word.”

“I didn’t have an answer for him,” Teach admitted. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Well, it  _ is _ the Crest of Flames. Does it burn?”

“No. It…” they trailed off into silence. “I’m sorry. I’m not good with words.”

Claude waved a hand. “You’re good where it counts. What about when you use the Sword of the Creator? Does the legendary weapon live up to the legends?”

They shrugged. “It feels… right.” They made a noise in the back of their throat. “That’s how the crest feels. Like it’s a part of how things should be. It’s… warm. But not like heat. Like— like this.”

“Like this?” Claude cocked his head. “Not sure what you mean.”

They nodded. “Mm. It’s the same feeling as I feel while I fish, but more intense. As though everything is as it should be. A light feeling in my chest.”

Claude mulled their words over in his head. A sense of ‘rightness’? “Satisfaction?”

Teach sat up, tucking their knees into their chest. They didn’t take their eyes away from the stars. “Maybe. Yes, but it’s more than that. Like a pat on the shoulder, or seeing my father after a period without him. Like spending time with you and the Deer— not in class, but the little things you all do. Like this. I’ve never had a place to call home. Home was wherever my father was. Now home is here. Activating my crest— it feels like coming home.”

He smiled. “That’s a unique feeling for a crest if I’ve ever heard one. But really, I’m touched. I’m glad us Deer could give you a place to belong.” He felt a small bitter pang of envy.

More and more his crest just seemed  _ different _ from everyone else. Just another reason he could add to why he was an outsider. Teach’s crest healed them, just like his healed him. Teach grew up away from the church’s doctrine, ignorant in the world of crests. Just like he had. He had hoped…

“Oh, another.” Teach interrupted his thoughts, pointing to another streak in the sky. “I wish—” Claude looked away from the sky and over to Teach. He was surprised to notice a visible frown on their face. “I wish my students all find success in their dreams.” Their usual monotone voice was sped up with urgency. Their eyes darted from the sky to Claude. “Did I say it fast enough?”

Claude’s eyes trailed back up to the night sky, the tail of the comet already gone. Still, the smile on his face felt more genuine than any smile he’d worn since coming to Fódlan. “Guess we’ll have to find out.” He pushed his worries aside, just for the night.


	6. Silver Screams

_ Claude was eighteen the second time he died. Claude was eighteen the third time he died. Claude was eighteen the fourth time he died. Claude was eighteen the fifth time he died. _

How many lethal blows had he taken today? He tried not to think about it. Now was not the time for an existential breakdown.

_ Remire Village. _ He couldn’t admit he was shaken by the place, not out loud at least. His classmates were relying on him to keep his cool. So he did.

He ignored how his throat burned from the smoke, the smoke that smelled too much of cooked meat. He was used to ignoring throat pain after all. He’d gotten good at pitching his voice so his voice didn’t sound as raw as it felt. It wasn’t a skill he thought he’d need outside of his own little vomiting problem, but it came in use as he went to each of his classmates to check up on them.

He kept his smile light. He pushed away the memories of the villagers they hadn’t been fast enough to save. He wasn’t sure if the nausea he felt was from that or from his crest use. Probably both.

Night was already falling by the time they made to return to Garreg Mach. They’d spent extra time prepping the survivors for travel, extra time searching through the ruins of the town, extra time to make sure everyone was healed and safe.  _ Dammit _ but they spent a lot of extra time.

The last few were being checked over. Claude made to check with Teach about their ETA (he really needed to puke soon. He would prefer to do it in his own room and not in the woods). He was stopped by Linhardt of all people.

“Marianne already looked me over, I’m good,” Claude told him, all smiles and good nature. 

He was in perfect health of course. Courtesy of his crest. Damn the cursed thing, but he’d be dead without it. Caught off guard the first time, his attention fixed on the hellscape of a village and not on the spear that entered between his ribs. Too distracted trying to save a villager from a burning building the second time, not fast enough to dodge the wooden beam that landed on his back. He hadn’t expected the child to be so strong the third time, little hands driving a dirk into his knee first and then into his kidney. The fourth time had been unfair— an arrow pierced his throat out of nowhere.

Four times. He should have died four times, but he always managed to find a target to force his crest into activation. Healing him like nothing had ever happened. Not even a scar. That wasn’t even counting the dozen or so other times that his crest activated.

His uniform was in tatters, much to his annoyance. Slashed at his chest and torso with a new hole in his pants. The back of his uniform was ripped and burnt. Dried blood stained his neck and shirt-collar, his chest and side, his knee. That wasn’t even including the splatters of blood from other people decorating his sleeves and chest. He wasn’t the only one with a freshly bloodied uniform though, so no one commented on his.

Linhardt wasn’t so easily pushed away. “Is that so? Then why do you look paler than earlier? Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Claude kept his smile in place. He would break out into a cold sweat soon, he was sure of it. He’d rather Linhardt not be around by that point. “Can’t fault a guy for being a bit shaken up after everything that happened today, can you? Guess it’s all hitting me now.”

“Claude, do you really think I can’t see when someone is feeling unwell? I  _ am _ a healer, in case you forgot.”

Claude gave a shrug. “Listen, I’m fine. You don’t need to waste your time on me when there are others that need you.”

“On the contrary, Marianne is seeing to the last of them. Stop trying to avoid this. I know you avoid healers for whatever odd reason, but this is important. I haven’t forgotten our conversation in the library months ago— your crest makes you nauseous, and you used your crest a great deal of times today.”

“Not so loud,” Claude murmured. “That’s not exactly something I want spreading around.”

Linhardt opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted as Jeralt bellowed that they would begin heading back to the monastery, thank the Stars. With a small wave and a wink, Claude made himself scarce before Linhardt could stop him.

The Golden Deer took to marching at the end of the group. Teach and Jeralt led the survivors, and it was the job of the students to make sure nothing snuck up behind them. He ended up walking beside Ignatz. Someone quiet that he wouldn’t be forced to talk with, not when he was struggling more and more to stave back his discomfort. He wasn’t so lucky when Hilda took up walking along his other side. She was observant, and more importantly  _ talkative. _ Something he didn’t need right now. The silver lining was that Hilda was quiet today. Still, she peppered their walk with a few concerned looks towards him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Between her and Linhardt, who he just knew was staring into his back, Claude was walking a thin line.

They had barely begun the walk back when Claude felt the cold sweat start. He did the mental math in his head; they had a few hours to walk. He wouldn’t last more than a few minutes.

He did his best to regulate his breathing, but soon he found himself panting. His arms were shaking, his legs felt like noodles as they took him step by step. All it would take to land him on his ass would be an out of place rock.

Hilda was frowning at him. Even Ignatz seemed to have taken notice.

He swallowed roughly, resolving to focus on not stumbling.

Hilda waved a hand in front of his face. He jerked back, biting back a moan as the world seemed to swim and his stomach tried to force itself past his lips. He blinked, and realized he wasn’t moving. Hilda and Ignatz it seemed had also stopped. They were looking at him expectantly.

“-aude? Hellooo?”

“What? Sorry, spaced out.”

“Yeah you did, don’t scare us like that!” Hilda huffed, pouting and putting her hands on her hips.

“Will you let me look at you  _ now, _ Claude? You’re white as a sheet,” Linhardt said, coming up from behind him.

Claude waved a hand. “’M fine, I’m fine. Just lost in thought, let’s k-keep moving.” Despite his best efforts, his voice wavered. He could tell he convinced no one.

“Claude. You’re shaking like a leaf, you clearly aren’t fine,” Ignatz said.

“Look, it’s not—” He slammed his jaw closed as his eyes widened. He swallowed, begging for just a few more seconds. “A-actually, I’ll be right back!”

“Whu— Claude! What’re you—” 

Claude took a few steps before bolting off into a sprint towards the treeline. He barely made it a few feet when he felt the retching start. His legs collapsed and there was no more fighting the bile back.

On his hands and knees he heaved out a stream of silver onto the road. His world shrank to a pinprick as he spewed an unending torrent of silver.

Stream after stream poured from his mouth. It was worse than it had ever been. The torrent was like a living thing, like a living creature forcing itself past his throat. More and more of the liquid poured out onto the road. Hot tears ran down his cheeks, a sob choking from his lips.

He wondered if he might drown.

He felt a hand on his back. Then an agonizing pressure, reaching into him and enraging his blood. Like oil was poured straight into his veins. Like something  _ wrong, _ something invasive that didn’t belong. He whimpered at the added pain, his nose bursting into a shower of silver. 

His back arched as the feeling tore through his insides. A smothered gurgle of a scream passed from his lips. A convulsion rattled through him leaving him seizing on the road. He tried to wriggle away from the feeling of  _ wrong wrong wrong  _ but couldn’t move more than a few shakes. 

The wrongness vanished.

A few more mouthfuls of silver and he passed out.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Claude stopped walking, Hilda knew something was wrong.

Well, she’d actually known something was wrong for a while. Claude usually got a little pale after battle, so she hadn’t thought much of it at first. He’d been a calming presence when they needed it most.

It was when they started marching that Hilda realized he was way worse off than he had been a few hours ago. He usually got pale after battle, but he was whiter than she’d ever seen. He was probably whiter than she was! Despite the cool evening he was sweating. There was a tremor than ran through him too. A light shove would probably knock him over. As they walked, he started panting. It was quiet; she could tell he was trying to keep the sound to himself. But the more they walked, the more gasping his breaths became.

Then he just stopped walking. His eyes stared blankly ahead, his body quivering. She shared a worried glance with Ignatz.

“Claude?” Hilda asked. He didn’t respond. “Claude?” She said again, louder this time. This caught the attention of those around them, halting their clustered classmates. They all shared a glance, allowing the professor and Jeralt to lead the survivors on ahead without alerting them. They’d catch up.

“Why’d we stop?” Leonie asked. Hilda just pointed to Claude and gave a shrug.

She waved a hand in front of his face. “Claude? Hellooo?”

This caught his attention. He jerked back, eyes snapping to the present. He looked around at everyone, his eyes darting about. “What?” his voice croaked. He swallowed and licked his lips. “Sorry, spaced out.”

“Yeah you did! Don’t scare us like that!”

Linhardt, surprisingly, spoke up. “Will you let me look at you  _ now, _ Claude? You’re white as a sheet.” 

Claude gave a tiny shake of his head, barely an inch to the side before his expression twisted into a grimace. He waved a hand instead. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just lost in thought, let’s k-keep moving.” He would have been more convincing if he wasn’t gasping between his words.

“Claude. You’re shaking like a leaf, you clearly aren’t fine,” Ignatz said, speaking for everyone.

“Look, it’s not—” Whatever he was about to say was cut off as he tensed. He clamped his jaw shut and his eyes blew wide. “A-actually, I’ll be right back!”

Hilda was too surprised at the sudden change of demeanor to do anything as Claude backed away a few steps before breaking out into a run. He didn’t get far. At first Hilda thought he tripped. Then she heard the retching.

“Idiot. This wouldn’t be happening if he just let me look him over…” Linhardt mumbled, moving over to assist Claude. 

Claude hunched in on himself, keeping his back to them as he vomited. Hilda wanted to look away, wanted to cover her ears. Claude retched again, the sound of liquid splashing on the ground made her wince even more.

Linhardt froze midstep. “W-what?” he gasped, sending a bucket of ice down Hilda’s spine.

“What’s the matter? What’s going on?” Lysithea asked, looking to her and Ignatz as if they’d know anything. She replied with a shrug.

“Is Claude alright?” Raphael asked over the sound of Claude’s retching.

“Is he vomiting? Disgusting!” Lorenz sneered, but Hilda saw his concern as his eyes remained fixed on Claude.

“What’s wrong with him?” Leonie asked Marianne.

“Um, I don’t know… He seemed fine earlier…”

A third series of contractions rippled through Claude as he heaved up even more vomit. Goddess, how much did he have in his stomach? This sent Linhardt back into action. Yet as the healer stood over Claude’s knelt body, his hands hovered with uncertainty. “That… can’t be good.”

It was when Claude choked out a sob between retches that really made her afraid. For all his carefree attitude and mischievous ways, Claude loathed showing real weakness. Her feet were moving before she had a chance to even consider that she’d be useless, racing towards Claude. Absently, she noted the rest of the Golden Deer were doing the same.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. Vomit, probably. Maybe bloody vomit. She definitely wasn’t expecting the glimmering pool of moonlight in front of Claude. A pool of liquid silver. Nor did she expect the silvery residue around his mouth or the silvery streaks pouring from his eyes. His eyes had a glazed look to them, staring forward into nothingness. There was something ethereal about his eyes, like they held an otherworldly light.

He hunched again, his back arching like a cat’s as he retched for the fourth time. The river of silver that poured from his mouth was as impressive as it was horrifying. 

Linhardt backed away, rapidly paling with a hand clutched to his nose. He gave them a wide eyed stare. “Blood,” he choked, “it smells like blood.”

Marianne stepped forward in his place, placing glowing hands on Claude’s back, rubbing circles. Claude coughed out a few more mouthfuls of the stuff, whimpering as he hung his head.

For a moment, Hilda thought it was over. She thought Marianne’s healing touch had ended the horror show. But no. Claude gasped in ragged breaths and choked out another stream of silver vomit. Worse, his nose started streaming with the stuff too in the most intense not-really-bloody nose she’d ever witnessed. His back shuddered and he squirmed under Marianne’s touch. A moment later and he fell face first into his own vomit, his body convulsing. Marianne wrenched her hands back and Claude stopped writhing.

Claude coughed out a few more mouthfuls, gasping for air as his nose continued to run. He shifted, panting. Hilda was too afraid to assume he was finished. Instead, he let out another moan and his eyes rolled back into his head. He passed out. 

Hilda couldn’t seem to move, frozen either with horror or simply struck dumb. Marianne carefully moved his head away from the puddle, setting his head in her lap. Silver drool puddled onto her skirt.

There was silence.

“Is he going to be okay?” Raphael’s whisper was the first to shatter the silence.

All eyes went to Marianne. She wrung her hands together. “I, um. I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this before…” 

“What  _ happened?” _ Lorenz made a wild gesture in Claude’s general direction.

“Was this caused by Remire?” Ignatz asked.

Then something clicked in Hilda’s head. She’d seen silver just like that smudged around Claude’s mouth before. “Oh Goddess…” She gasped, remembering how she had tried to get Claude to give her some. He’d said it was  _ paint! _ “This isn’t the first time this happened, is it…” 

“What? I think we would have noticed if this happened before!” Leonie all but shouted. Hilda could relate with the panic in her voice.

“Wait… Hilda, I think you may be correct,” Lorenz said, pained realization on his pale face. “There have been a few times I’ve heard… well, heard retching from Claude’s room. I assumed it was just him being reckless with his poisoning hobby…”

“Oh Goddess… He  _ does  _ usually look pale after most battles,” Marianne murmured.

“His crest,” Linhardt said, causing all eyes to swivel to him. He sat on a nearby log, shaking. Hilda really hoped he was just shaken up by the blood smell, and that Claude’s condition wasn’t contagious. “He once asked me if my crest had any negative side effects. I assumed he meant… well, it doesn’t matter. He was visibly surprised when I said it didn’t. I asked if his did, and he said it only made him ‘a little nauseous’.” Linhardt gave a humorless snort. “Clearly an understatement.”

“Crests can do  _ that?” _ Ignatz gestured to the pool of silver.

Linhardt shrugged. “There’s so much we don’t know about crests. Maybe, maybe not.”

It was hard watching Marianne gently examine Claude. Hilda itched to do something (very unlike her) but she’d only get in the way. No one knew what to do, all of them awkwardly crowded around Claude’s collapsed body. Leonie passed Marianne a rag to wipe the other-worldly vomit from Claude’s face.

_ Goddess. _ He was so pale. Wasn’t the Crest of Riegan supposed to  _ heal? _ Claude looked so small. Weak. Vulnerable. He’d probably hate the fact that he was defenseless. If he was awake.

They were still hours away from the monastery. Would Manuela even be able to help him? Marianne’s faith magic only seemed to make things worse. It put Claude’s subtle reluctance around faith magic into a horrible perspective. 

Even if they put him on Leonie’s horse and sprinted back, it would still be at least a two hour ride. Besides, the train of Remire survivors were already using Leonie’s horse to help transport some of the most injured.

Did Claude have that much time?

“He’s stable,” Marianne said after a lifetime. “Um, I think. I don’t want to use magic on him again, it seemed to h-hurt him before…” She clutched her arms around herself. “I don’t know what to do. It was like his body was fighting my magic… rejecting it. We need to get him back to Manuela.”

It was decided that Raphael would carry him. Carefully tucked in Raphael’s arms, they swaddled him in Leonie’s jacket to try and keep him warm. Leonie made a grumble about how ‘the weird fluid had better wash out’ but her heart wasn’t in it. He looked tiny.

“I don’t think he’s supposed to be this light…” Raphael commented, quieter than Hilda had ever heard him.

They walked in silence for a bit. They had fallen behind the rest of the procession, but their faster pace would have them catching up soon. No one was looking forward to explaining to the Professor about what happened.

“So Claude’s crest is, what? Killing him?” Leonie broke the silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Hilda noticed Lysithea flinch. She was being oddly quiet… 

“That isn’t possible,” Lorenz said with a shake of his head in that haughty tone of his. “A crest can’t kill its wielder. That would be like one’s own blood rebelling.”

“Allergies are a thing,” Leonie commented. “Could Claude be allergic to his crest?”

“Uh, I don’t think allergies cause whatever this kinda thing is _ ,” _ Raphael nodded at the faint residue left from tear tracks of silver still glistening on Claude’s cheeks. “Unless it’s some sort of magical allergy?”

Their eyes went to their resident magical genius, Lysithea. With a start, Hilda realized Lysithea looked  _ very _ pale. She  _ really really really _ hoped whatever was wrong with Claude wasn’t contagious.

Lysithea jerked as she realized attention was on her. “What?”

Ignatz gestured to Claude. “Is something magical wrong with him?”

Lysithea scowled. “Well, obviously. What, do you think spewing shiny fluids is natural? Of course not!”

Hilda ran a hand through her hair. “That doesn’t really narrow down what’s wrong with him. Something magical! Even I could tell that. Can’t you be a little more helpful Lysithea?”

Hilda expected some sort of scathing remark. Instead, Lysithea clenched her jaw, eyes staring at Claude. Finally, she spoke. “They can.”

“Um, what can?”

“Crests. They can kill their user.”

Hilda exchanged a glance with Lorenz. She… hadn’t known that.

“Well that’s interesting,” Linhardt said. “You sound confident about that. Yet I’ve never heard of that happening before.”

Lysithea’s shoulders tensed, her eyes still fixed on Claude. “I don’t know if the same thing is wrong with Claude. I’ve never… I don’t know of any cases where crest use ended with this result. Usually it just… burns the person up. Hollows them until their body gives out.”

Her voice was quiet, meek in a way very unlike her.  Hilda looked at Claude,  _ really _ looked at him. Had his face always looked so thin?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the ball's rolling. On the bright side, I can promise a little comfort come next chapter. The chapters will be a bit longer like this one up until we hit the timeskip.


	7. Silver Veins

Claude groaned.

Everything hurt. He was exhausted. His limbs felt heavy and fuzzy.

“Hey, he’s waking up!” A familiar voice whisper-shouted. Raphael.

Claude peeled his eyes open.

“Someone should probably get Manuela,” an orange blob said. Leonie.

The familiar surroundings of the infirmary greeted him, as well as the entirety of his class.

He groaned again, closing his eyes. “Well, what’s the special occasion? This is some party. Is everyone here for little ol’ me?” he croaked.

There was a moment of silence. Frowning, Claude dragged his eyelids back open. Everyone was exchanging worried glances.

“Do you remember?” Ignatz’s tiny voice asked. “You were, um… injured.”

_He was?_ He fumbled through his memories.

_Remire._ He remembered.

… Kinda.

“It was that damned archer, wasn’t it. Ugh.” Claude wanted to rub his sore throat, but his arms felt like lead.

_“Archer?”_ Hilda asked, her tone incredulous. “What archer?”

“The one that shot me in the throat?” Claude huffed a ghost of a laugh. “Wait, no. I was fine after that. Uh…” His thoughts fumbled as he tried to remember what happened. “I give up, I don’t remember.”

More oppressive silence.

“Well we don’t really _know_ what happened…” Marianne trailed off. 

“You, umm… Come on guys, why do _I_ have to be the one to tell him?” Hilda’s tone was uncharacteristically hesitant. 

He tried to walk back his thoughts. He got shot in the throat. Pulled out the arrow. Returned the arrow, his crest activating. The fighting winding down. The unending agony of waiting for things to get a move on. Nausea.

Nausea. _Oh no._

Did he pass out in the woods after puking? Did his classmates see?

Wait.

He never made it to the woods.

The memory of losing his stomach slammed into him.

_They saw._

_They knew._

Fear raced down his spine.

_This was bad._ He forced a smile on his face even though he knew no one would believe it. He knew his eyes were too wide, his smile too tense. He forced himself to move his heavy limbs, pushing himself upright and into the back of the bed as much as he could. Space, he needed space. “I don’t suppose you guys are willing to forget you saw anything?”

His peers erupted. He let them shout at him. He let them shout. About how he lied to them. About how he owed them answers. About how they were _worried_ about him. _Yeah, right._ He used the opportunity to take a few deep breaths, took a moment to calm himself.

The shouts died down. Claude stared up at the ceiling, exhausted. In the wake of his fatigue, his fear was easily quashed. _Maybe he could just fall asleep and leave this conversation for some other time…_

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Hilda whispered. “All this time?”

Claude shrugged. “Does it matter?” Why did they even care? It's not like his little issue affected them.

Silence.

“Will you at least explain what happened?” Lorenz asked. “Is your crest really killing you?”

Claude gave a half shrug. “Hell if I know,” probably the most honest thing he’d said in years. “Probably.” He was tired.

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” Hilda repeated, shouting this time. “We could have done something— made sure you used your crest less, or, or— something!”

“It builds up.” 

Claude didn’t say that. His eyebrows hit his hairline as he twisted his head to look at the speaker. Lysithea. “It builds up, doesn’t it. When you don’t use it.”

He swallowed. “Yeah.” _Did she also…?_ “Does yours…?”

“Sometimes,” Lysithea admitted. “Like the power becomes too much for my body to contain. Nothing so extravagant as your symptoms.”

“Well, _my_ crest doesn’t do anything like that!” Hilda shouted, throwing up her hands. “What’s _wrong_ with you two?!”

Marianne flinched.

Lysithea fidgeted in her seat.

Claude huffed a laugh. “If you find out, I’d love to know.”

“Claude,” Lysithea’s voice was timid. “The people that did this to you, were they…?”

Claude frowned. “People? No one did this to me. It’s my crest. It’s just how it is.”

Lysithea shook her head. “No! I—” her eyes darted around at their classmates, then settled on his. Her resolve hardened. “Claude, you don’t have to lie. It happened to me too.” She whispered the words like they were her deepest secrets.

Too bad Claude had no idea what she meant. “Who did what now?”

Lysithea tugged at her white hair. “There’s only one reason someone’s crest would hurt them: they weren’t born with it.”

“Wait, isn’t that the only way to have a crest though?” Raphael asked.

“Well, yes…” Lorenz said. “Lysithea, you aren’t making sense.”

She tugged harder on her hair. “I’m not— I shouldn’t say anything.” She bit her lip, eyeing Claude. “But I won’t stay silent just to keep your secret, Claude.”

“What secret? You guys all already know I vomit weird bile after using my crest.” It felt odd to say it out loud. “Ta-da, that’s my big secret.” One of them, at least.

“Stop lying! Your crest is artificial, just like mine!”

Gasps rippled through the class. “Artificial?”

Lysithea stared at the floor. “I wasn’t born with a crest. I was experimented on as a child. It was implanted into me.”

Claude’s eyes bugged. _What?!_

Lysithea curled in on herself. “I was the only one to survive the experiments. The survival rate is very low. But the implanted crest is— my health is poor. Because of the crest.”

Claude gaped. At least he could take comfort in the fact that everyone else was gaping too.

“So— so I know what I’m talking about. There’s no other reason why your crest would be killing you, unless it was artificial.”

Lorenz brought a hand to his lips. “Claude, you— I see it clearly now. Are you even a von Riegan? You had a crest implanted so you could steal the Alliance!”

“Lorenz, what the hell." Leonie kicked his shin. "Even if that is the case, now is seriously not the time for that!”

Claude shook his head. “Look, Lysithea. I’m sorry about whatever happened to you, but I was born with my crest.” Right? Technically, he didn’t know for sure… he’d been twelve the first time it activated, after all. “Back home—” he hated talking about home— “no one even knew what a crest was other than my mom.”

“Not knowing what a crest is? That’s impossible,” Lorenz sneered.

Claude rolled his eyes. “The world’s a big place Lorenz, a lot bigger than Fódlan.”

Lysithea fiddled with her hands, her eyes downcast. “I’m just telling you what I know. The only other reason I can imagine a crest would harm its user is if they had two crests— something theoretically impossible. So that means the only answer left is that it's artificial.”

“U-um…” Marianne spoke up. She shrunk in on herself at the sudden attention. “I-I, um… a-about, about crests…” She shook her head. “N-nevermind. I’m not, not supposed to say.”

“If you have something to add,” Lysithea hissed, “I suggest you do so. Or is it only _my_ secrets that are fair game?”

Hilda gave Marianne a soft pat on the back. “It’s okay Marianne, you can do it!”

“My crest is cursed!” Marianne burst.

“You have a crest?” Leonie blurt.

“I-it brings bad luck to everyone around me, a-and everything I touch. I-it’s said, it’s said…” she squeezed her eyes shut. “Nevermind. Natural crests can hurt their user too. My ancestors were cursed, and because of that, so am I.”

Claude sighed, leaning back into his pillow. Well, at least Marianne finally opened up about her troubles. Too bad he didn’t feel any satisfaction in it. “That’s stupid.”

“W-what?”

“Claude!”

Claude gave a half-shrug. “What? It is. Just because your ancestors were cursed, that doesn’t have any bearing on you. Say your ancestors were thieves. Would that make you a thief, even if you’ve never stolen anything? Of course not.”

“T-that’s not the same.”

“Here, let’s do this the Alliance way then. We’ll put it up to a vote. Anyone here ever had bad luck around Marianne?”

“If anything, I’d say I have better luck around Marianne,” Ignatz commented.

“Yeah, nothing unlucky on my end either! Well, sometimes birds fly away, but that’s probably just because of my voice,” Raphael added.

“Ugh, something about her just makes me want to put effort into things. Marianne’s too sweet to be a bad omen!” Hilda said.

Lorenz nodded. “Quite so. Why, I find myself positively motivated in her presence.”

“Yeah, agreed. Sorry I took your comment about you causing me misfortune as an insult the other day,” Leonie sheepishly admitted, “that was my bad. But no bad luck!”

“Suddenly so much about you makes sense, Marianne. Your problems stem more from low confidence in your abilities than any measure of luck.” Lysithea said.

“I… I…”

“See Marianne? Surely if your crest caused misfortune for those around you, someone would have noticed. Also, I might have snuck a little peek at Linhardt’s research a little while back. He found no correlation between crests and bad luck— even your little rarity.”

“Oh… but…” Marianne looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.

“I _do_ appreciate you bringing it up though!” Claude said, more cheerful than he felt. Unfortunately, Marianne’s added knowledge didn’t lend any insight for his own crest. Lysithea, on the other hand, had tipped a very interesting hand. Crests could be artificial? He doubted that was his problem, but it was something to look into… 

“Why did no one see fit to come and get me?” The angry voice of Manuela cut through the conversation.

Claude snickered at the mix of guilt and fear that played across his classmate’s faces.

“Out! Everyone out, I need to run a diagnostic now that he’s awake.”

Reluctantly they filed out of the room until it was only him and Manuela. He was pleased to note even as everyone left the rest of the Deer gave reassuring comments to Marianne. Hopefully they wouldn’t overwhelm the poor girl.

“Marianne mentioned that faith magic triggered a seizure in you during your, ah… ‘fit’. Have you come across this problem before?” Manuela asked as she checked him over.

Claude shook his head. “Nope. I can’t say I’ve ever been healed with faith magic before, though.”

Manuela looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “You’ve never been healed before?”

By staves once or twice. By faith? Absolutely not. He shrugged. “My crest heals me. Never needed faith to heal me.”

Manuela still gave him a side-eye, but nodded. “I’m going to use a diagnostic spell. Let me know if you feel any discomfort at all, understood?”

At his nod, she ran glowing hands over him. It tingled something sharp, but no pain. That was good. “Like pins and needles. No pain.”

Apparently, this wasn’t the correct answer. Manuela’s eyebrows shot to her forehead. “You can _feel_ my spell?!” She quickly brought her hands away. “Well, you seem to be in perfect health, if a touch underweight.”

Claude waved a hand through the air. “I mean, it was barely a tingle. I hardly felt it,” he lied.

Manuela gave a slow nod. “Strange, but I suppose magic-sensitivity is not unheard of.”

Hanneman entered the infirmary, followed by Linhardt. “Ah, the man of the hour himself is awake! I have so many questions!”

“Hanneman, I will not have you harassing my patient!”

“‘Harassing’?! Why, I only have a handful of questions to ask.”

“57 listed for now,” Linhardt piped up, nodding down to a clipboard he held.

Claude groaned. Maybe _now_ would be a good time to go to sleep?

* * *

  
  


Manuela kept him on bed rest for two days. He’d been fine after the first, though he reluctantly had to admit it was good to catch up on sleep. Not that he’d say that out loud.

His condition was being kept a secret, thank the Stars. For all of their faults, Manuela and Hanneman understood why Claude didn’t want any of this getting out. Much to his pleasant surprise, they even agreed to not inform the archbishop of the specifics at his request.

The entire monastery knew he’d been injured during Remire. The cover that Teach explained for him was that he’d been struck by some particularly nasty dark magic. Everyone seemed to buy it as far as he could tell, but only time would tell whether his secret remained safe or not. It wasn’t so much an _if_ one of the Golden Deer would leak his secret, but a _when._ Claude knew better than to trust that much.

Unfortunately now that he was off bed rest, that meant _tests._ They came from both Manuela and Hanneman. As reluctant as he was to give away any scrap of information about himself, he knew they were his best bet of figuring out what was wrong with him.

Testing with Manuela didn’t find much. Usually, Manuela explained to him, she would use a diagnostic spell to determine the general state of his body. At his curious prodding she elaborated that the spell didn’t exactly tell her what was wrong, just if a patient needed healing and where at. Another point towards his distrust of faith magic.

She was reluctant to use the spell now though, considering Claude’s ‘magic-sensitivity’. He figured it would be fine— it didn’t hurt, just tingled. But Manuela wasn’t willing to push it.

Claude needed to find someone that was willing to perform a very mild healing spell on him. As much as he was (very) leery about faith magic, he also needed to know how vulnerable he was. Hell, maybe he could go the route of mithridatism. The act of giving oneself small doses to build a tolerance worked with some poisons, so maybe it would work with faith magic as well? Not that he was looking forward to it if that was the case. He knew very, _very_ intimately how miserable it was to build up that kind of tolerance. (Was he annoyed that Fódlan didn’t even _have_ rattlesnakes? Maybe. Maybe.)

In the end, Manuela hadn’t been able to discover much using traditional medicine. Traditional medicine in Fódlan was…

It was downright barbaric.

Fódlan was _reliant_ on faith. With faith magic, understanding was actively discouraged. After all, if faith was understood, it wouldn’t be faith anymore. _Bah._ The cultural impact of that kind of thinking had wide-reaching consequences. 

Why learn the intricate systems of the body when there was faith magic? Why learn which organs were important and which were irrelevant when faith magic made that kind of knowledge irrelevant? Why learn that shock could kill someone long before the actual wound when, if someone just prayed really really hard, the injury vanished? Never mind the fact that faith magic wasn’t infallible. Some things just couldn’t be healed through faith. Disease was an obvious example— there had been a devastating plague in Faerghus a little over a decade ago. Before some miracle healer stepped in and managed to fix everything, the most common form of ‘healing’ given to the sick was self-flagellation. Because _obviously_ sickness was caused by the Goddess seeking to punish her people.

And they called _his_ people barbaric.

Fódlan had monks and priests. Almyra had shamen and sages. For the faith based clergy, intent was what mattered. _‘I want to heal this wound’_ or _‘I want to steal life energy’_ or _‘I want to warp this person’._ Specifics weren’t necessary. A priest didn’t need to know if their patient had a ruptured lung or not— the healing worked regardless of knowledge. 

It was polar opposite of Almyra’s healers. A staff user _needed_ to know every detail. They needed intimate knowledge of exactly what was wrong. If a shaman tried to heal the wrong body part it could easily lead to death. A shaman drew energy from the earth and nature, channeling it through their staff and bestowing it very precisely to wherever the patient needed healing. Drawing too much or too little energy and the entire spell would either fall apart or tear through the patient. Channel it through the staff incorrectly and, once again, havoc would be released into the patient. And if the shaman didn’t know _exactly_ what was wrong and what needed to be fixed, they could easily kill the patient. If the shaman thinks the kidney needs to be healed, but in actuality the problem is with the pancreas? Bam, still issues in the pancreas, AND now that kidney has cancer, if there even is a kidney anymore.

It was much easier to botch an Almyran heal spell than it was to mess up a Faith based heal. 

And people wondered why he was reluctant to have faith magic used on him, even before his ‘sensitivity’ came to light. The mentality that healing should be a last resort was ingrained in every fiber of his being.

That wasn’t to say Fódlan was wholly ignorant of medicine— far from it. Thank the Stars Manuela actually knew a fair amount of correct medical information. And yet… things like leeches still happened. _Leeches!_ Claude only had a passing interest in medicine, and even _he_ knew it was counter-intuitive to drain blood from someone already sick (not to mention any pathogens that might be introduced from the leeches!)

He came to the unfortunate realization that, now that he knew his body rejected faith magic, his only other option was Fódlan’s traditional healing. He needed to restart his old garden and make some healing salves. No way was he ever going to a doctor in Fódlan’s backwater medical world.

This all culminated in Manuela finding very little about his condition. She gave him a physical examination, determining he was mildly malnourished (he already knew that— his visible ribs made it obvious). The only other useful thing she uncovered was that his ‘magic-sensitivity’ was only a faith-based magic sensitivity. Reason magic didn’t have the same tingles under his skin. 

Maybe Fódlan’s Goddess just hated him. He was a bit of a heathen… 

Unfortunately, in Manuela’s examination, she ended up taking off his shirt. Which meant she saw his King’s Mark.

Thank the Stars, thank Fódlan’s Goddess, and thank any and all other deities listening that Manuela was from the Empire and not the Alliance. Anyone born in the Alliance would immediately recognize the circular mark on his shoulder blade as Almyra’s symbol. 

No one at the monastery would know the real significance (save Cyril) but that didn’t make it much better. At best it could be assumed he had been unwillingly branded with the symbol. That still marked him as having ties to Almyra. At worst, it was a flagrant symbol of his true allegiance. If the wrong person caught wind of it, he could be removed from his place as heir to Riegan, or potentially even executed.

Manuela, on the other hand, scolded him for having a tattoo. _A tattoo._ A nearly once-in-a-generation symbol, a sign of approval from the star of fate himself; and she assumed it was a tattoo. Sure, Claude probably wasn’t the only Almyran with a King’s Mark— usually there were a handful at any given time. The mark only meant one _might_ be a future ruler, not that they would be. The mark meant he was of royal blood. It only appeared in the descendants of the First King of Almyra. 

Ironically, the claim of having royal blood meant far less in Almyra than it did in Fódlan. It had been over a thousand years since the First King lived. The King’s Mark could pop up in just about anybody in Almyra. Unlike Fódlan, the caste system was not so rigid. Even royalty often married out of love, nobility and commoners mixing freely. His parents were an obvious example of that. The light inbreeding (and sometimes not-so-light inbreeding) of Fódlan’s nobility was viewed as abominable in Almyra. It was still a struggle for Claude to keep his face straight whenever Lorenz made casual mention about pursuing a woman that Claude _knew_ was the man’s cousin. King’s Marks were far more common in the immediate royal family, but a child of a peasant had the chance to rule Almyra. Claude’s paternal grandfather, the previous King before Claude’s father, had been born a penniless whoreson.

He _knew_ no one at the monastery knew the significance of the mark, yet it still felt strange. There had never been a ruler of Almyra without a King’s Mark— they were important. Back in Almyra, his status as a potential successor to his father was well known. That fact never did him any favors— if he had been markless, no one would have felt threatened enough by his existence to try and kill him. His mark was a personal reminder that not even the star’s favor could quell people’s hatred of outsiders and otherness. 

To have Manuela roll her eyes at the mark and move on was surreal. It was good though. For now he could assume his secret was safe with Manuela’s ignorance.

Hanneman was where things got interesting. Somewhat. How the man could be simultaneously a fountain of knowledge and as dry as a desert Claude didn’t know, but he was reluctantly impressed.

“I’ve combed through every available resource I could get my hands on,” Linhardt was telling him. Hanneman, Linhardt, and Lysithea had made it something of a personal mission to get to the bottom of his mysterious crest. “Nothing comes even close to describing the side effects your crest has.”

Claude twiddled with his braid. “Not even other users of the Riegan Crest?”

Linhardt rolled his eyes. “Of course. Do you honestly think we didn’t check those extra thoroughly?”

“Young Linhardt is correct. Unfortunately, our research has made little headway,” Hanneman told him. “Your own accounts of your crest thus far have been our only credible statistic.”

Claude sighed. He was sick of describing it. How it felt when he activated his crest, how it felt after, how the healing felt, what the vomit tasted like, how much vomit was average, when did it start— 

Hanneman had his notes and quill in hand. “We’ll start with something different for this session. Of course, as always, you are not required to answer if any question makes you uncomfortable…” blah blah blah, Hanneman said the same thing every day. “Now as heir to house Riegan, I know you have already had your crest tested. However, retesting your crest by a certified crestologist may very well reveal any discrepancies.”

One small vial of blood later and the dim golden glow of his crest shone above Hanneman’s machine.

There was a furrow to Hanneman’s brow that Claude didn’t like. “That’s strange.” He gestured to the crest. “Do you see here how it wavers? Why, I’ve never seen a crest do that! It is much more translucent than most as well. I’d say it looks weaker than other crests, though how that is possible I cannot say. There’s no such thing as a ‘minor minor crest’.”

“It’s the wrong color,” Lysithea added. “It’s usually silver.”

Linhardt pulled out a book, flipping through it. He stopped at a page with a large illustration of the Crest of Riegan. “Historically speaking, the Crest of Riegan is gold. Just as Lamine and Dominic are also gold.” He tapped the golden picture for emphasis, the book showing a far more vibrant color. “Your crest should be gold. On the Crest Analyser, it’s a washed out yellow. But in use, it’s bright silver. How strange.”

“Hmm, I can’t think of any crest that is silver,” Hanneman added. “Many crests are blue with a white center, but none are full silver…”

Lysithea leaned over Linhardt’s shoulder to peer at the book. “Wait, that isn’t right. Look at these lines here.” She traced them along the book. “These are different.”

Claude joined Lysithea to peek at the book. Looking back up at his own crest, the differences were subtle. The lines were smoother, far less jagged and sharp. The crossing lines between the two crescents wavered in widths. The outer crossing lines even curved, where in the book they were straight. In the book the crest had sharp points, but the same spots on his own crest were rounded and dulled. The inner crescent of his crest was thinner than the outer, where in the book they were the same thickness. Overall his crest looked _smooth_ in a way other crests weren’t. 

“I don’t suppose there’s the possibility that the crest in the book was drawn wrong?” Claude carefully asked.

“I cannot believe I missed this!” Hanneman tugged at his beard. “I should have noticed— this crest is unlike any I’ve ever seen!” He wildly gestured between the two images. “There’s an inherent design rule that every crest follows— and yet yours breaks them!”

Lysithea took pity on Claude, noticing his confused expression. “Think of it like this: every crest is made using the same quill. The ink may vary the widths slightly, but overall it is the same between all crests. Yours… it’s like someone used a paintbrush instead.”

“It’s like the crest is mutated. Defective, perhaps. Some sort of anomaly. Is that even possible?” Linhardt mumbled.

_Mutated. Defective._ What did that even _mean?_

Hanneman shook his head. “I’ve never heard of any such thing, but the evidence is before us.” He ran a hand through his hair looking lost as he stared at the crest. “And you are _entirely certain_ you have no idea why your crest is strange, Claude? No random acts of magical experimentation as a child? No exposure to odd magical phenomenons?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

Hanneman sighed and turned the machine off. “Well, take a seat. We still have another half-hour for the session. After that’s over I’ll see what I can find regarding these abnormalities.” Hanneman sunk into his chair, clasping his hands together. “Now then! I suppose we might as well start with the potency of your crest. By looking at it, I would hazard a guess that it doesn’t work nearly as effectively as it should. What, in your opinion, has been the worst injury you’ve healed using your crest? Have you noticed any wounds it won’t heal?”

“Starting with the tough questions, huh.” Claude tapped his chin, his mind sinking back to the fatal injuries he’d taken over the past few months. “Either the arrow I took to the throat at Remire, or maybe the time I got impaled by one of Lonato’s men. The second hurt more, but the first was probably more deadly in the moment.”

Hanneman was blinking at him rapidly. “What?”

“You said that wasn’t your blood!” Lysithea accused, whirling from where she had been still peering down at Linhardt’s book. “When we fought Lonato, you said…” Her eyes were wide.

“I lied.” Her jaw hung open. Further examination proved Hanneman and Linhardt were equally shocked. He shifted, feeling uneasy. “My crest heals, you all know this. I don’t think it has any limits, short of being beheaded. Probably. But I’m not planning on testing that.”

“Claude… your crest doesn’t heal _lethal_ damage,” Linhardt said, still slack jawed.

“Uh, it does. I just said that?” He ran a hand along the back of his neck, not liking the shock they were giving him. He knew healing crests were rare, but still…

“What young Linhardt means is that, historically speaking, there has been no recorded instance of the Riegan Crest healing a fatal blow.”

“What? Nah, that’s not right. Uh, right?” His eyes darted to Lysithea, hoping she would have some anecdote that would prove the other two wrong.

“Goddess…” Lysithea whispered, “you would be dead without your crest.”

Claude sighed, slumping into his seat. “Yep. I’m aware, thanks. Painfully, existentially aware.” He rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the still dumbfounded looks being sent his way. “Look, I’m sure other users of the Riegan Crest are the same way.”

Linhardt shook his head. He drummed his fingers against his book. “There are many historical accounts of various Riegans dying on the battlefield. If they could heal lethal wounds like you can, surely they wouldn’t have died, no? The Riegan of the Ten Elites himself died from an axe cleaved into his chest. Providing the historical records are accurate, he died on impact. No chance to activate his Crest.”

“I mean, I’m not exactly able to sit down and have a picnic after being wounded. Probably. I have to be quick about activating my Crest. Not sure how long I have exactly, but, y’know.”

“Claude, you do know that _faith magic_ can’t even heal mortal wounds, yes?” Linhardt looked at him like he was stupid.

It was Claude’s turn to blink in surprise. “You’re pulling my leg, right? Of course it does.”

Linhardt fixed him with an unamused stare. “I’m uncertain if your ignorance in medical knowledge is impressive or astounding.”

Claude felt a flair of offense. _HE_ _was the ignorant one!?_ “Excuse you, I’ve been patching up my own scrapes since I could walk. I know plenty about medicine. It’s faith magic that is nonsensical.”

Linhardt shook his head. _Rude._ “Well, since you’re so ignorant in faith magic, I’ll say it again: lethal wounds cannot be healed.”

Lysithea slapped a palm to her face. “Honestly. That’s one of the first things taught! Magic is an acceleration of the body’s natural healing. If the body is already shutting down, preparing to die, there’s nothing that can be done.”

“Seriously? That seems like a pretty big flaw…” Almyran healing could and did work on lethal wounds. Though in Almyra, healing was pulled externally from the natural energy floating around. “So let me just make sure I’m understanding you right— faith magic heals by using the patient’s own energy?” He felt _so_ vindicated on his avoidance of the magic. People used faith magic on _everything_ in Fódlan. He’d seen a priest heal a child’s _scraped knee._ Back in Almyra he hadn’t even received magical healing for his broken leg. Healing was a last resort in Almyra due to how easily it could be messed up. Now he was hearing that the energy that powered the faith magic came from the injured party? He had to wonder if that affected someone’s lifespan.

“What did you think it used?” Lysithea asked in that judgy way of hers. 

He couldn’t really answer that without outing himself, so he just shrugged. “Look, you know Faith is my worst subject.” He could give first aid better than any other student anyways.

So faith magic stole life energy, _and_ it couldn’t heal lethal wounds. On the flip side, it was easy and simple to learn.

The beauty of the Almyran healing was how versatile it all could be. It was extremely difficult and risky, but when done well there wasn’t anything better. Sages _understood_ the body in incredible detail. There wasn’t much that a master sage _couldn’t_ heal. Sure, death was still an obstacle— people can’t be revived from the dead. But anything before that? A master sage could cure it. Since the healing energy comes from an outside source, healing a fatal wound was just as easy or difficult as healing a normal wound. Hell, his father’s personal healer once regrew an injured man’s entire _heart._

That said, magical related diseases were a nightmare to heal. Nearly impossible unless a sage was a specialist. Another place where faith magic did better.

“Fascinating… An ability to heal mortal wounds… I suppose we can rule out your crest being _less_ effective, despite its sickly appearance,” Hanneman mumbled as he still wrote on his notepad, his face grim. “And every time you have been wounded, you were able to activate your crest? Hm, very lucky.”

Claude shook his head. “It’s not luck. The more I need it, the more it activates.”

“That’s not how crests work.” Linhardt gave him a strange look. “The activation rate of a crest remains static no matter the user’s mental or emotional state. There have been many studies on the subject.”

He shrugged. “After every lethal hit I’ve taken, my next attack always activates my crest. Don’t know what else to tell you.”

“How often does your crest even activate? Now that I think about it, I’ve seen it go off far more often than I would expect from a minor crest,” Lysithea said.

“Depends. Sometimes only once or twice in a battle. If it’s more of a life or death fight, or if the battle goes on for long enough, it triggers more often.”

Hanneman hummed. “What is your record for most times in one sitting?”

Claude paused to think about that. The record had to go to Remire. He mentally tallied them up. “Fourteen.”

He was met with more wide eyes.

“I was very stressed.”

“Fourteen.” Linhardt repeated.

“Yep. Remire.”

“That’s— that’s unheard of for a minor crest. Rare for a major crest.” Hanneman ran a hand through his hair, staring blankly at his notepad. “Goddess. You’ve escaped death twice due to your Crest. Unheard of. This is… this upends years of research.” Hanneman looked both elated and miserable at the same time.

“… For the sake of accuracy, it’s actually five.”

Hanneman blinked at him.

“Five lethal wounds.”

“Claude!” Lysithea screeched.

Claude threw up his hands. “It’s not _my_ fault!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol it’s not so much that Claude’s getting more lethal hits than anyone else in the class, but more that after he gets a lethal hit he’s fine, so Byleth doesn’t notice and doesn't rewind time.
> 
> Lotta worldbuilding this chapter, lotta secrets being spilt. Claude, being his usual Claude-y self, doesn't even realize his classmates like him enough to spill some of their own secrets if it means potentially helping him. Poor boy doesn't even realize he has friends T-T Hopefully the healing aspects were interesting and not super exposition-y.
> 
> Fun fact: I was curious about crest colors. After having difficulties finding images of what color every crest is, I went ahead checked with my own switch. Here’s the list I came up with:  
> Blue: Blaiddyd, Charon, Daphnel, Fraldarius, Gautier, Gloucester, Cethleann, Seiros, Macuil, and the Beast.  
> Green: Cichol, Goneril, Aubin, Ernest  
> Gold: Riegan, Crest of Flames, Lamine, Dominic, Noa, and Chevalier  
> Cyan: Indech  
> Faint Orange: Timotheos  
> No color change between minor and major crests, and it doesn’t matter who uses the crest- the color always remains the same. All of the ‘golden’ crests involve healing in some manner, which I find interesting. The ‘green’ crests all stop counter attacks. Blue seem to be a pretty big catch-all, most involving raising mt. Indech is unique in color as far as I can tell, which makes sense considering it’s a very unique crest. 
> 
> The really weird one, which I didn’t notice until I started writing this side note, is Timotheos. Its effect is effectively the exact same as Lamine, but the color is distinctly different. I triple-checked the crest, going so far as to screenshot the thing in action. Its opacity is very faded, its not golden/yellow like the others but rather orange. It’s hard to see and faint, and it doesn’t have the same glow to it that every other crest does.
> 
> It’ll be interesting to see if this is explained in the DLC (5 days left, hype!) Part of me wants to rush out the rest of this fic in those five days so I won’t be tempted to edit things based on whatever we learn— but this fic isn’t even 1/3rd of the way over yet. So if anything in the future dlc contradicts whatever I write, it’s because I wrote it before the dlc dropped lol.


	8. Silver Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boy finally catches a break (somewhat)

Claude sat in the empty library, fiddling with the corner of a book. He wasn’t sulking.

… He was sulking.

Left behind. Teach left him behind!

_“It’s for your health Claude,”_ Claude mumbled to himself in a mimic of Teach’s voice, _“We don’t want you injuring yourself Claude.”_ He huffed. _This_ was why he kept the damned thing a secret! Partially. Teach and the rest of the Deer were off to put an end to some monster attacks along a trade route. He was to be the future leader of the Alliance— he should be there!

For the previous week the entire class had been walking on eggshells around him. He was _perfectly healthy, thank you!_ But no one let him _do_ anything. No weed pulling, no heavy lifting, no sparring. He wasn’t even allowed to help in the stables or on sky watch. He wasn’t allowed to pick up a bow, sword, or axe. If he so much as _tried,_ someone was always there to stop him.

Raphael insisted on carrying Claude’s books both to and from the classroom. He even started stopping by the library to see if Claude needed anything carried back to his room. At least that act seemed genuine— he was (mostly) certain Raphael wasn’t the sort to try and peek through his books. Leonie was less charming about her actions. Like Raphael she tried to carry anything even slightly heavy for him, but she constantly chided him. She said she was only upset that he _‘wouldn’t ask for help’_ but he knew she really meant that she thought he was weak. Marianne was flat out avoiding him. He was actually a little worried about that. He wouldn't be surprised if Marianne was blaming herself for Claude's problems.

Even Lorenz was treating him in a sickeningly overly-kind way. _Lorenz!_ That guy hated his guts! What was his angle this time? And yet he dogged Claude with combined insults and _nagging_ of all things. The insufferable noble was treating him like a fainting maiden. _‘You should rest before you keel over and make a fool of yourself’, ‘Are you so incapable of remembering to eat? Some leader you will make’._ He got a _papercut_ and Lorenz acted like he was about to bleed out. _‘Without access to healing, you are vulnerable! Your reckless actions will lead to your ruin if you do not curb them. You should be grateful I am here.’_ Ugh. The only silver lining to being left behind was not having to deal with _that._

In a fit of desperation he offered to do Hilda’s chores for the week, no strings attached. _And she said no. Hilda!_ Hilda said _no_ to someone doing work for her!

Worst of all was Teach. They were some odd mix of disappointed and guilty. As far as he could read— they were hard to understand on a good day. _“I’m sorry. I should have noticed.”_ Uh, no, they should _not_ have noticed. That was the _point_ of him _keeping it a secret._ Yet they still oozed guilt for some arcane reason.

What he really wanted to do was to throw his book at the wall.

“Oh! Hello there Claude,” a familiar voice came from behind him.

He leaned back in his chair and flashed a smile. “Flayn! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I finished with all of my study material, and thought perhaps the Library would have something more entertaining to read. What of yourself? I thought you would be on the mission with the others.”

Claude threw a hand over his face. “Alas, dear Teach seems to think I’m made of porcelain. Apparently I’m _‘not recovered enough’_ to go on the mission.”

Flayn looked him over with the critical eye of a healer. “Mm, yes, I heard you were injured at Remire.” Her face took on a remorseful look. “I should have been with the class. But my brother forbade it.” Her sour expression was all he needed to see to know what she thought about that.

“Be glad you didn’t go. It wasn’t a pretty sight.” He wasn’t prone to nightmares, but Remire was becoming a common theme in his dreams.

Flayn gave him a petulant look. “I know I appear young, but I am no child. I could have given aid.”

Claude shook his head. “Wasn’t saying you couldn’t. Whether you’re a child or a millennia old crone, no one deserved to deal with that.”

Flayn sighed, sitting beside him. “Still.” There was a moment of silence as Claude went back to idly fiddling with the pages of the book. “You do not look injured. Are you still in pain?”

He snorted. “Nope. I’m in peak condition, actually. Manuela even cleared me. Like I said though, Teach seems to think I’ll break if someone so much as looks at me funny.”

Flayn hummed. “The professor cares for you a great deal. They care for all of their students. Though I will admit, keeping you away from a battle for fear of injury seems much more like something my brother would do, not the professor.”

Claude sighed and rested his head on his book. “Can’t say I feel very loved at the moment.” He flicked at a page.

“The entire class has been very worried for you. You have many friends.”

_Friends? Pff._ Sure, he must have freaked everyone out with his condition. But he doubted they cared that much beyond the shock value. Teach probably cared, he figured, but he doubted any else would be sad to see him go if he died. Hilda might shed a genuine tear or two, but he wouldn’t bet on it.

Flayn huffed, and slammed her hands down on the table (more like forcefully patted). “Well! Clearly you need some cheering up. You are downright— downright—” Flayn made a vivid gesture with her hands, “—downright wilted! Like a mopey flower that has been left unwatered for weeks.” 

“You sure know how to flatter a man,” Claude teased. “Besides, I’m not _mopey.”_ He was, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Just bored, that’s all.”

Flayn gave him a _you’re-full-of-shit-but-I’ll-humor-you_ look. “Well, ‘ _just bored’,_ I too am bored! Clearly nothing in the library is helping to cure your ‘boredom’.” Flayn looked around, biting her lips. “Tell me, what is it you find enjoyable outside of study?”

Claude shrugged. “Probably nothing we’re allowed to do. Unless…” He met her growing smile with a smirk of his own. “Unless you’re up for a little teenage rebellion.”

The smile Flayn returned was downright _toothy._ “I’m listening.”

Sneaking out with Flayn had been easier than he expected. Flayn was small and easily quiet. She took his tips on stealth like a fish to water. He would make a proper sneak out of her yet.

His original suggestion had been to just sneak down to the town outside the monastery. Then Flayn had caught his wistful glance at the rack of training bows.

“I have been thinking about learning how to use a bow,” she commented to him. That was all he needed to switch his focus.

Bow and arrows strapped to their backs, they slipped out of the monastery. There was a quaint little grove that Claude liked to visit. One teeming with good prey to hunt, as Leonie once showed him. 

Claude set up a few makeshift targets for Flayn to practice with. “Try to hit these first. From there, we’ll see how much work you’ll need.”

Flayn nodded, a determined smile on her face. She took up a strange stance— it wasn’t an archer form Claude recognized, but it wasn’t bad. Her stance was solid and sturdy, low to the ground. Claude could imagine the benefits of such a stance. With that kind of form, if someone got up close and personal, all she had to do was drop her bow and deck them. It was definitely a martial stance. It didn’t fit her physique well, but nonetheless it was solid.

She nocked the arrow with only a touch of hesitance. She aimed and fired, her shot hitting the edge of the target.

“Good shot for a first try,” Claude praised. “You’ve had training.”

Flayn gave a small blush. “Please, I only barely hit the target. But yes, my uncle taught me some of what he knew. A very long time ago. I am regrettably quite rusty.”

“If that’s rusty, I can’t wait to see your bow skills when they’re polished.” Claude stepped up to her side, adjusting her stance with his foot. “You look like you’re ready to punch someone in the face, not fire an arrow. Not bad if you’re good at punching. Unfortunately, I’ve never found an opportunity where I had the chance to punch a squirrel while hunting.”

“Ah, you have a good point. How would you suggest I alter my stance, then?”

Claude saw a touch of movement out of the corner of his eye. He flashed Flayn a smirk and winked. “Like this.” In a single smooth motion he nocked an arrow, turned, and fired at the magpie on a nearby tree.

He grunted as a flash of light illuminated behind him, his body shuddering as his crest activated. Because _of course it did._ _Stars_ he hated his Crest. He wasn’t even injured!

Flayn clapped. “Oh, that was amazing! I did not even notice the bird, and you barely took any time to aim at all! Simply exquisite!”

His annoyance evaporated in the face of Flayn’s enthusiasm. It was fine. Sure, he would need to hide away in his room in a few hours, but that was nothing new. Since his housemates were gone, no one even needed to know. He gave a bow, flashing a toothy grin. “Thank you, thank you. I can feel my ego swelling with every word you speak.”

Flayn laughed. “With those archery skills, I can’t blame your ego for being a bit swollen. Your stance is much different from what my uncle’s was. Yours is much more fluid. Can you teach me?”

“Why, it would be my pleasure!”

Teaching Flayn was a much needed break from the past few days. _Finally_ someone wasn’t treating him like glass. Beyond that, Flayn was an earnest student. She took to his lesson like a sponge. She was also fun to banter with, her odd but sunny outlook on everything making it impossible _not_ to be happy around her.

Not to mention he was chipping away at some of the mystery behind her. She had an uncle, which meant that Seteth shared the same uncle (or was the man’s brother or step-brother… he had his theories about Seteth being Flayn’s ‘brother’). Judging by the past tense she used for her uncle, he was either dead or she hadn’t seen him in a long time. Considering the lack of sadness when she spoke of the man, he assumed it to be the latter.

She taught _him_ a few things on archery as well. Whoever her uncle was, he wasn’t the standard archer. What kind of archer wore heavy armor, waded into battle, and defaulted to fists when an enemy got too close? Fascinating.

“We should likely return to the monastery soon. It would not do for my brother to think me missing again.” They shared a grimace at that. “Besides, I will admit it has grown difficult to see the targets.”

Claude winced as he looked around, realizing night was already falling. “My bad, lost track of time.” He swallowed uncomfortably, realizing it had also been a few hours since he shot that magpie. Since his crest had activated.

Damn.

He looked up at the sky, expecting to see a full moon. Instead there was only a sliver of a moon rising into the sky. Odd, it seemed too light for that. “Beautiful night for stargazing,” he commented, mostly to himself.

Flayn hummed beside him. “Yes, the stars are quite the sight.” Her voice was oddly wistful.

Claude might have suggested they stay out a little longer if it wasn’t for the familiar swell of nausea. His Crest activation had been slight, and only once. He wouldn’t throw up much. It would be nice and quick.

Still… the onset of symptoms was faster than he was used to. He’d been successfully ignoring the churn in his gut for hours, but now he was already breaking into a cold sweat. He sighed, resigning himself to finding a nice, lonesome spot in the woods to spill his guts.

“Why don’t you head back to the monastery ahead of me? I think I’d like to spend a bit longer stargazing.”

Flayn shook her head, eyes still on the sky. “I think I shall as well. It has been such a long time since I took the time to just watch the heavens.”

Claude grimaced. “What about Seteth? He’ll notice you’re missing soon.”

Flayn rolled her eyes. “Let him worry for an hour. I care not. He has been quite the pest as of late— let him stew. Besides, I do not remember the way we came from to get back.” She slid him a sly smile. “I trust you do?”

Claude bit back his groan. She needed him to get back, of course she did. He swallowed again, not much time left. “Well, stay put for a moment. I’ve got some business to take care of in the woods.”

“… Business…?” Flayn shot him a skeptical look.

“I need to take a leak. Unless you’d like to join me?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Please do not get lost.”

He gave a mock bow and walked to the edge of the glade. Fast stride, but nothing suspicious. As soon as he was in the foliage he broke into a run, desperate to get out of hearing range before he spewed.

He stopped and groaned, dragging his fingers across his face. He was far enough, he was certain. He toed his boot into the soft dirt, digging an impromptu shallow hole. Moments later he was on his knees, retching. Nothing came up at first, which sometimes happened when his crest didn’t actually heal any wounds.

He must have retched for a full minute, maybe two, before the silver bile came out. The shoddy hole he had made quickly overfilled. Grunting as a second mouthful came from his mouth, he came to the unfortunate realization that this was more than he was expecting. _Just great._

“Claude?”

Claude’s eyes bulged as he coughed, desperately trying to spit the last of the vomit from his mouth. He was about to say something to Flayn, but his voice was stifled by another dribbling mouthful of silver.

He could do nothing but futilely try to cover the silver mess with his back still to Flayn. Her steps came closer, and he knew he was found out.

“Claude, I heard— Goddess! Are you alright?”

Claude spat the last bit of bile onto the ground, groaning and wiping his mouth. He sighed, not meeting her eyes. He was _certain_ he was out of hearing range, how had she heard him? “I’m fine. This happens from time to time— really, it’s nothing to worry about.”

Flayn knelt beside him. Her grip was surprisingly firm as she took his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t look afraid. That was good. “Claude, please tell me what this is.”

He wanted to look away, but something about her eyes— so serious— held his attention. He gave a defeated sigh. The rest of the Golden Deer already knew anyways. “Side effect of my crest. Few hours after it activates, this happens. It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise.”

She jerked, surprised. Claude frowned. What had he said that resulted in shock? “This— this is a result of your _crest?!”_

Claude shrugged. “Yup. For as long as I can remember. Before you ask, no, I have no idea why.”

Flayn pressed her lips together, her eyes piercing. Looking at him, through him. “Are you aware that your eyes are glowing?”

Claude took a moment to register what she said. “What?”

She let go of his chin and gestured to his eyes. “They are a rather vibrant color at the moment.”

He glanced at his surroundings, noting for the first time that he could see details as well as if it was daylight. He glanced down at the silvery puddle below him, a chill going down his spine as he saw two green lights reflected. Two green lights that matched his eye color perfectly.

“Huh. That’s… new. I think.”

There was a moment of silence. He peeked a glance at Flayn. She was staring down at the puddle of his vomit, her expression thoughtful. She reached out a hand and skimmed the surface of the bile.

“Whoa, uh, maybe don’t touch that? That’s vomit. In case you forgot.”

Flayn hummed, bringing wet fingers up to the starlight. “This shouldn’t be possible.”

“Well, it is.”

Flayn shook her head, not looking away from her coated fingers. “No, I mean… this isn’t… isn’t…”

Claude was starting to get worried. “Hey, calm down. It’s fine.”

Flayn ignored him, reaching to fumble at her side. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, to Claude’s confusion. She took the arrow head and ran a line along her palm, drawing a small line of red.

“Whoa whoa let’s not do a crazy blood ritual in the woods!” Claude grabbed for the arrow, Flayn giving it up with no resistance.

She dipped a finger back into the puddle of silver and dragged it along her palm.

“You do remember that came from my mouth, right? That’s literally my _vomit_ that you just put onto your cut.”

This got a reaction from Flayn, who rolled her eyes. At him. Like _he_ was the crazy one. She reached into her pack. Claude was ready to snag another arrow from her hands, but she only pulled out a handkerchief. She wiped at her palm, wiping away the smear of silver and red. Underneath was unmarred and uninjured skin.

“Did—” Claude did a double take, grabbing her hand. He looked at it closely. There was no indication that there had been a cut on it mere moments before. “Bwuh?”

“This fluid, it has healing properties.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“You’re right, this is influenced by your crest.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“But it isn’t _just_ your crest causing this. There’s— something else. Another factor involved.”

Claude raised an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”

Flayn picked up a stick and poked at the puddle. “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“I beg to differ. Clearly you’ve seen something _like_ this. How did you know it would heal you?”

“It is difficult to explain. It was just a hunch. But I suppose you are right. I have seen something similar before.”

“Oh? Go on.”

She shook her head. “It is not something I can speak of.”

“Of course not. Not like it’s my life on the line here.”

Flayn met his eyes with an understanding sadness. “This process, it must exhaust you.”

Claude laughed. “You have no idea.” Already his eyelids felt heavy.

Flayn clutched her legs to her chest, still stirring at the silver puddle with her stick. “It’s not the same, but this reminds me of… of an old tale. A very old tale. Back when the Saints roamed the world still.” She was quiet as she gathered her thoughts. Claude let her take her time. “It is said that during the war, the saints had their champions. Seiros had Wilhelm, Cichol had— well, it doesn’t matter. Their champions were given the blessing of Crests.”

Claude eyed her. “Given? Not born with? I admit, I always assumed they were the children of the Saints.”

Flayn spared a small smile. “No, that is not the case. For instance, Saint Cethleann never had any children.”

Claude’s stomach churned, his mind going to Lysithea. “So, these champions were ‘given’ crests.” He didn’t see what this had to do with anything, but he wasn’t about to stop whatever Flayn was talking about.

“Indeed. So the legend goes, Saint Cethleann’s champion was mortally wounded on the battlefield. In a bid of desperation, she sliced open her wrist and fed her champion her holy blood. The wound was washed away, and it was from that time forward that he was granted the Crest of Cethleann.”

Claude had never heard anything like that story. He couldn’t trust it fully, but Flayn didn’t seem to be lying. She didn’t have any motivation to lie. In fact, she very much looked like someone spilling a secret they weren’t supposed to.

“I know this stuff smells like blood, but I don’t think it’s actually blood.” Claude grimaced, peering at the reflection of his glowing eyes. “Besides, I’m no saint.”

Flayn laughed. “No, you are not.” Her face sobered. “But you asked me what this reminded me of. And I have given you an answer. It’s not the same, not at all.” She pulled her stick from the puddle, holding it up to the starlight and watching it shimmer. “This won’t give anyone the Riegan Crest, that I am certain of. There’s something else to it. Something…” Her face twisted as she fumbled for words. “Foreign. I am uncertain.” There was a moment of silence between them as she fidgeted. “My brother might know more.”

Claude shook his head. “Absolutely not. You can’t tell anyone about this. Other than the rest of the Golden Deer, no one knows.”

“This is why you were left behind today, isn’t it.”

“Yeah. They found out after Remire.”

“I will keep your secret so long as you keep mine. I’m not supposed to share that tale about the Saints.”

“Because of your blood?”

Flayn gave a small flinch. “Yes.”

“Your secret is safe so long as mine is.”

Flayn nodded. “I won’t tell my brother. But I do think he would know more than I do. Lady Rhea is even more likely to know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Later that night, alone in his room, he tried the same thing Flayn did. He ran a slim knife across his thumb, warm blood beading along the surface of his skin. He dipped the tiny wound into the familiar liquid silver.

He wiped away blood and bile. Another bead of hot blood replaced the first, his cut still open.

_Seemed it didn’t work for him._


	9. Silver Knuckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How bout that dlc huh y'all? I am SO glad nothing (that I've noticed yet) contradicts what I've written, phew. I'm also glad I got chapter 7 out when I did lol, since the dlc confirms a lot of my headcanons (not about the Almyran stuff, but more about the medical system). Which... oof. I was right in the worst possible way. Honestly still kinda blindsided by that.

The end of the month was approaching. The White Heron cup had come and gone— the Golden Deer had won, of course. Flayn was ecstatic to dance around in her new outfit. Even better was Seteth, who flipped between pride for his sister and rage towards anyone that looked at her.

Teach  _ finally _ let him back on the roster. Everyone was still treating him like glass though. Flayn was the only one that didn’t.

The class was doing a favor for one of the guards. It was a simple mission to take out some bandits. The bandits were entirely outclassed. Any one of his classmates could probably take the whole encampment single-handed. They’d even left Linhardt behind so he could continue to do research with Hanneman. 

That didn’t stop Teach from placing him in the rear. Nevermind the fact that a single arrow from him could take out any of the bandits before they even got close enough to strike him. 

Even worse was the way his classmates were distracted. By him. They were actively handicapping themselves by splitting their focus. 

Claude was ready to tear his hair out. He was going to tear into  _ Hilda  _ after the battle— she took a moment to look over her shoulder to look for him  _ mid-swing. _ She deserved the glancing blow to her side that bought her. She  _ knew better _ than to look away in the middle of a fight.

It wasn’t just Hilda though. Everyone was sloppy, and he knew it was because of him.

“Eyes on the prize, Lorenz!” Claude shouted as he shot an arrow through the eye of a bandit coming from Lorenz’s side. A bandit that Lorenz  _ should have noticed, _ and  _ would _ have noticed if he hadn’t been squinting at Claude.

“Claude! You are  _ supposed  _ to be guarding the rear!” Lorenz yelled back, the ungrateful dastard. While he was busy yelling at Claude,  _ another _ bandit was nocking an arrow aimed right at him.

“I’m guarding  _ your _ rear, since you’re incapable of doing it yourself!” Claude yelled as he intercepted the bandit’s arrow midair, then fired another shot before the bandit could react.

He hissed as his Crest pumped through him.

“Claude!” Lorenz shouted, abandoning his position to race towards him. Claude immediately tensed and did a 360, looking for any threats. All he saw was the entirety of his class jolting to look in his direction at Lorenz’s shout.

Claude shot another bandit that tried to take advantage of the fact that Lorenz had his back to half the enemy forces.  _ “What?!” _ he barked.

Lorenz reared his horse as he came to Claude, leaping off. Lorenz grabbed his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Claude shot him a bewildered look. “Yes? I haven’t taken a single hit, what are you  _ doing?” _ He slapped at Lorenz’s hand, backing away.

Lorenz had the gall to look offended. “I was steadying you. Did you think you could hide your Crest? I was looking straight at you, I saw it.”

“I wasn’t hiding anything. Lorenz, the battlefield is not the place to be having this conversation. Or any conversation, really.” He fired another arrow, trying to shore up the opening that Lorenz had left.

“We can’t have you keeling over in the middle of a fight.”

“Lorenz, I’m  _ fine.” _ Lorenz scoffed. If Claude hadn’t been nocking an arrow, he would have thrown his hands in the air. “You know what? I take it back. I’m not fine.”

Lorenz nodded. “You shouldn’t hide your pain. Here, climb on my horse. I’ll take you to the side lines.”

Claude grit his teeth, holstering his bow on his back. “Lorenz, I’m not fine.  _ I’m pissed.” _ Claude dashed past Lorenz and unsheathed his sword. He took satisfaction in the sound of surprise that Lorenz made. Seeing the shock on his face would have been nice, but unlike  _ some people _ Claude knew it was stupid to look away from the battle field.

He might not be as skilled with a sword as he was with a bow, but he was no slouch either. He hacked his way through bandits, working out his frustration. Lorenz was still shouting at him, but it was easy to block out the noise and focus on the battle.

“What are you doing?!” Hilda shouted by his side, her axe smashing into the head of a bandit.

“Killing bandits, the usual. What are  _ you _ doing?”

“Claude, get off the front lines!”

Claude took a deep breath. Getting angry would only make him sloppy, and if he got sloppy he would get hit. If he got hit, everyone would think he was weak. He ignored Hilda.

He bobbed and weaved between blows, not letting a single one touch him. With his focus on the bandits, it was almost like time moved slower. His eyes could pick up every detail of the enemies in front of him. Every tell, every opening. He knew he was fast, but today he was able to use that speed better than ever before. Everything was sharper, brighter. His eyesight seemed better somehow. He didn’t dwell on it though, too busy with combat.

Usually Claude kept an eye on his classmates. Considering he was  _ usually _ a mid-ranged archer, it made  _ sense _ for him to keep an eye out. His classmates were usually in his line of sight anyways. Today he ignored that urge. He focused only on himself. After all, if his classmates were  _ so good _ that they didn’t even need to focus on their own battles, they could damn well handle themselves.

Claude pushed past the enemy’s front line and deeper into the camp. He heard a few shouts directed at him, but he knew what he was doing. He wasn’t being cocky— he wasn’t about to underestimate his foes, weak as they were. He took each opponent seriously. Considering one of the lethal wounds he had received had been from a literal child, he knew the foolishness in underestimating. 

Claude didn’t like killing. He hated it, actually. Even bandits like these were humans too. He took no pleasure in mowing down human life. But these men were a threat to the people nearby and needed to be taken out. Claude might not be proud of killing them, but he was proud of his skill.

Most of the camp targeted him. He was vastly outnumbered, not that it mattered. He let them come to him, let them fall at his feet as he danced circles around every bandit. Though he was grounded, all his training with wyverns finally paid off. He kept his stance alert and nothing could touch him. After each missed swipe at him, he retaliated. Few bandits lasted more than a single strike.

Though his dodges were fancy, his sword technique wasn’t. Each strike was simple, efficient, and nothing more than the bare necessity. His mind was clear, something like a battle meditation falling over him. He could feel the way his blood stayed calm. It would be so easy to strike with wrath, or hold his blade with more finesse. He was certain his crest would start to stir if he put more focus into his strikes.

So he didn’t.

It wasn’t long before only the dead remained at his feet. A quick glance around proved no more enemies in the surrounding area. He drifted his gaze to his classmates. Still mopping up the last dregs.

“Claude!” Leonie was the first to reach him. “Are you alright?”

“Never better. You’ve got a little something on your cheek right here,” he tapped his own cheek. Leonie swiped a hand across her cheek and rolled her eyes at the blood. Only a small cut and they both knew it.

“Seriously though, are you alright?”

“Claude, you reckless imbecile! What were you thinking?” Aaaand that was Lorenz, riding up to them.

Claude inspected his blade, a bit annoyed at how much damage the iron sword had taken. “You’re asking what I was thinking? Lorenz, you don’t want to know the thoughts of a schemer.”

“He’s right, you’re a dummy.” Hilda, right on cue. “You aren’t a front-liner, what were you doing?”

“You’re supposed to be taking it  _ easy _ Claude, not going murder-crazy!” Lysithea added her unwelcome two-cents.

“Uh-huh. Let me know when you’re all done.”

“Claude! You can’t—”

Claude yawned. Loudly.

“O-oh, is the fatigue hitting you?” Marianne asked. “H-here, have a vulnerary. I’m not sure how much it will help though, I’m sorry.”

_ Deep breaths Claude. Deep breaths. Keep smiling. _ “That was a fake yawn. And I’ve got nothing to heal, Marianne.”

“Idiot!” Lysithea shouted. “You’re supposed to be using your crest  _ less! _ Either stay back so you don’t get hit, or drink a vulnerary next time!”

His smile was growing strained. He spoke very slowly. “Act-ually, I don’t need healing because I  _ didn’t get hit.” _

“You’re lying,” Lorenz scoffed. “Did you forget I saw your crest activate?”

Claude was actively gritting his teeth. “You do remember that crests can activate and do nothing, yeah?”

“You still took a stupid risk, Claude.” Hilda glared at him. “What if you’d gotten hurt?”

“I figured it would be better to end the fighting before someone lost an eye. Or an arm. Or their life.”

“You really think we’d lose to some bandits like these?” Leonie sneered at him. “Do you think we’re that weak?”

Claude flicked his sword to remove some of the blood before flipping it in his hand and sheathing it. His strained smile slipped entirely from his face. “Underestimation kills. A child can kill you if you aren’t paying attention.  _ I _ already learned that lesson, but unlike me,  _ none of you get extra chances.” _ He punctuated that with a sharp jab of his finger.

Lysithea’s eyes widened, her mouth gaping in understanding. The others just gave him confused looks.

He cut off any question with a shake of his head. He was done letting them yell at him. “What the  _ hell _ were you all  _ doing  _ today?! Don’t think I didn’t notice  _ all of you _ look away from your fights to look at me.  _ ‘You really think we’d lose to some bandits like these’?” _ he sneered in a mockery of Leonie’s voice,  _ “‘Do you think we’re that weak?’ _ Apparently all of you think  _ I’m _ that weak.” Claude gestured to the corpses at his feet. “So here. Proved you all wrong. Yet you’re all  _ still _ trying to coddle me!”

“We don’t want you passing out in the middle of battle, Claude. Can you blame us?” Lorenz rolled his eyes.

“I can and will blame you.” Claude rested his chin on his hand, maintaining eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time. “But I suppose you have a valid point Lorenz. After all the times I’ve passed out in the middle of a battle, of course you’re right to worry— oh wait, never mind. I’ve never  _ done that.” _

“But your Crest—”

“I’ve had my Crest the entire school year Hilda. My entire life. Nothing’s changed.”

“Claude!” Flayn’s voice interrupted the conversation. Claude threw up a smile and waved a hand. Raphael and Ignatz were by her side, Raphael helping Ignatz walk with a slight limp.

All three returned his wave. “Claude, you were crazy!” Raphael shouted, laughing and slapping Claude (painfully) on the back. “That was amazing!”

“Thanks?”

“Indeed, you were a sight to behold! Something to be marked down as a legend!” Flayn added, her eyes beaming.

“They were just bandits, that was no ‘legendary feat’.”

“But you were so incredible! You were all  _ whoosh  _ and  _ zoom, _ as hard to catch as the wind!”

“Flayn’s right Claude, you were very impressive,” Ignatz added. “Your form, your movements— such grace! Just like Flayn said, you were like wind itself.”

Claude rubbed the back of his neck, actually feeling embarrassed at the praise. “Keep saying that and my ego will swell my head like a melon.”

“Claude,” came Teach’s voice. “Good job today. You did well.”

“Aw Teach, you don’t have to butter me up.” He winked. “But I’ll take that butter any day of the week.”

Teach’s face was as inscrutable as ever. “You ignored my orders.”

Claude hid a wince by giving an exaggerated shrug. “I wouldn’t say I  _ ignored _ them exactly, more like… creatively interpreted them.”

Teach raised an eyebrow.

“You said to guard the rear. Well, everyone kept turning around to look at me,” he gave a pointed look at the assembled class, “and since they were turned around, the center of the bandit camp was the rear. I was only following orders, swear it.”

Teach nodded. “Claude, I apologize.”

“Your fault for giving a vague ord— er, what?”

“I have been unfair to you. I was wrong to treat you as though your combat capabilities have decreased.”

“Ah.” Claude blinked. He hadn’t expected an apology. “Apology accepted.”

“It was still reckless what you did,” Hilda groused, deflating. “And stupid. Ugh. But if you  _ want _ extra work, who am I to tell you off? Sorry. Happy? You know, if  _ I _ was in your position, I’d love to be babied.”

Claude smiled. “Oh, I know you’d love it. Apology accepted.”

“Yeah, I guess we were being unfair.” Leonie gestured to the corpses at his feet. “Proof is obvious. I’m not sorry for being worried about a friend, but I’m sorry if it felt like we were coddling you.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “If I was in your position, I’d hate it if everyone was walking on eggshells around me all day long.”

“Aw, ‘worried about a friend’? That’s pretty sappy for you Leonie.” He winked and enjoyed her glare. “Apology accepted.”

“Well  _ I’m _ not going to apologize,” Lysithea grumbled. “But I suppose you know your body best, and when to push yourself. You’re far from fragile.”

“‘Far from fragile’. I’ll take whatever compliment I can get!”

“I-I’m sorry too!” Marianne squeaked.

Claude cocked his head. “Sorry about what?”

“Um, I’m just sorry?”

“Alright. Apology accepted, I guess?” Claude shrugged. He wiggled his eyebrows at Lorenz. “Well, do I get an apology from Count Uptight himself?”

“Absolutely not,” Lorenz said, turning his nose up. “I shall not rescind my concerns. You need to take better care of yourself, and clearly you have no regard for the value of your own life.”

“Yeah that’s about what I expected.”

Raphael whispered in Ignatz’s ear (the whisper was loud enough to hear). “Do I have anything I need to apologize about?”

“Um, I don’t think so?”

“And  _ I’m _ sorry I didn’t get the chance to dance for you!” Flayn said, giving a little twirl.

The mood was much lighter as they traveled back to Garreg Mach.  _ Finally _ his house wasn’t treating him like he had glass bones.

As was tradition after returning from a mission, the party moved to the dining hall to celebrate. The celebration was just dinner, but still.

Claude smiled at his housemates and began to slip out.

“Nuh-uh,  _ where _ do you think you’re going?” Hilda caught him by the elbow. “Mister I-weigh-less-than-a-loaf-of-bread. You’re not about to skip another meal!”

“Okay, that’s a gross exaggeration. I weigh at  _ least _ three loaves of bread.”

Hilda just glared at him. At least Flayn laughed at his joke. His entire house was ready to pounce on him and keep him in the dining hall. Just his luck.

“Look, I’ll be back, okay? Calm down.” He swallowed the uncomfortable growing nausea.

“Be back? Sure. And where exactly are you going?” Hilda wasn’t convinced.

“Oh.” It was Lorenz who figured it out first. “Is there anything we can do for you? Anything that helps? Maybe some tea for after?”

Claude shook his head. “Nah, don’t sweat it. I’ve been dealing with this all year, remember? Besides, it won’t be bad today, nothing like when you guys saw it.”

“Oooh, right, the ‘thingy’,” Raphael said. “Don’t worry Claude, I’ll save you a big portion of food!”

Claude smiled (even though the thought of food was rapidly becoming less and less welcome). “Thanks. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“The ‘thingy’?” He heard Leonie ask as he left.

“His ‘Remire’ problem,” Lorenz answered.

“Ooooh. Right. I almost forgot. Damn, so this is why he always leaves dinner early…”

“Is he going to be alright?” Marianne softly asked.

He didn’t stay to hear what anyone else said.

He entered his room and locked the door. Standard procedure. He pulled out his trusty puke bucket and rested his forehead on it.

Now to wait… 

Ten minutes later and the familiar burn of vomit stung his throat, the bucket nearly half full. Stars, he only used to puke that much after extended crest use. At least it was only about the same amount as the night with Flayn.

His arms trembled with after-shakes. He pulled out his rag and mirror, wiping away the excess silver along his lips. Then he examined the rest of his face.

He stared at his eyes.

Flayn was right, his eyes really did glow. He saw the vague reflection in the puddle before, but now he had a perfect view of them. Still green, but slightly lighter than his usual color. They hadn’t been glowing earlier in the day and no one commented on them. He wondered how long they would stay that way.

He sighed, tucking the mirror away. He crawled onto his bed, feeling too grimy to get under the blankets. He really  _ should _ bathe after the bloodbath of today. He also promised he would go back to the dining hall.

He would.

In a few minutes.

…

“Claude?” A knock at his door and Lorenz’s muffled voice oozed through.

Claude cracked his eyes open. He stifled a groan, running a hand through greasy and dirty hair. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t come back for dinner,” Hilda’s pout was audible through the door.

“Sorry, sorry. Was just,” he yawned, “closing my eyes for a few minutes.” He stumbled to the door and unlocked it, blinking in confusion at the pink and purple terror duo. Holding food.

“A few minutes? Claude, it’s been over an hour,” Lorenz grumbled.

Claude ran a hand down his face, feeling like a loaf of moldy bread. He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order. He threw on a smile that was hopefully at least someone reassuring. “Aha, my bad. Guess I fell asleep.”

“I assume that’s usual for you?” Lorenz’s voice was cautious. “Afterwards…?”

Claude shrugged. “Sometimes, but not always. More often than not.”

“Ugh, yet you still manage to fall asleep in class?” Hilda rolled her eyes.

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“Well Mr. talent man,” Hilda gestured to the plate of food in her hands. “You’re going to eat before sleeping.”

“And bathe, if I have anything to say about it,” Lorenz muttered.

Lorenz and Hilda strode past him and into his room. Lorenz was shuffling books and papers off his desk and onto the floor while Claude still stood by the door, blinking.

“Uh, whoa, hey. Pretty rude to just invite yourself into a fella’s room like that. At least buy a guy dinner first.”

“We brought you dinner, the least you can do is host us.” She made herself comfortable sitting on his bed. Lorenz placed his tray on the desk and Claude realized it was a tea set.

Claude sat down on his bed and let Hilda set the tray of food in his lap. Garreg Mach Meat Pie. Huh. “The Professor said it was one of your favorites.”

Claude nodded and took a bite. “Well, they aren’t wrong.” Despite not being hungry, it did taste good. Lorenz poured three cups of tea and placed one in Claude’s hand. He took a sniff. “Chamomile. Let me guess, Teach also told you this is one of my favorites?”

Lorenz jolted. “Oh, actually, I just picked it for the relaxing properties. I thought it might go well down your throat. But I am pleased to hear you favor it.”

Hilda and Lorenz talked between themselves about meaningless nothings while he ate. Occasionally he chimed in with his own quips, but thankfully they didn’t expect him to command the conversation. Which was good, considering his thoughts were still foggy.

It was nice.

They made no comments about his eyes, so he assumed they had stopped glowing. After finishing his meal and two cups of tea, Lorenz more or less dragged him by the arm to the bathhouse.

Cozying into bed  _ actually clean _ was nice. He wasn’t so tired that he didn’t notice that his sheets had been changed however. Or the fact that the sheets were actually made, instead of haphazardly thrown on top of his bed like usual. Hilda had left a small note on his desk.

_ ‘Your sheets are gross and they disgust me. There’s blood on them! How do you even sleep like this????? I’m washing them, you can thank me later!’ _

Claude smiled, his eyes drifting shut.

Maybe they  _ weren’t  _ lying when they said they cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boy is finally getting it through his thick skull that people care about him ;_;


	10. Silver Wounds

Linhardt didn’t even bother to hide his yawn. “Do we have to do this so early?”

“Would you rather do this in broad daylight?” Claude knew _he_ didn’t want to be chewed out by Manuela.

Linhardt sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Well, let’s get this over with. You’re lucky I’m more curious than I am tired.”

The cool dawn was crisp and refreshing. Even better, not even Felix was in the training sallies. It was just the two of them. Claude spread his arms wide. “Well, I’m all nice and ready for a mystical beat-down. Hit me with your best shot.”

Linhardt scoffed. “I told you, I will only hit you with a _severely_ watered down version of Nosferatu. I’m not going to risk permanently damaging you. Or getting in trouble with Manuela.”

“Aw, whatever happened to the old Linhardt that I know and love? You used to be willing to do any experiment as long as it got results.”

“You should know what happened.” Linhardt looked away. “I’ve reevaluated some of my priorities. After witnessing Solon’s work in Remire… well. It’s obvious that my old way of thinking was misguided. Results aren’t everything.” He gagged. “Ugh. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

Claude nodded. “Right. I’m ready when you are.”

Linhardt raised his hands, a familiar golden glow illuminating his gestures.

As Claude expected, he immediately felt the spell. It was like cold hands gripping into his skin and pulling. Claude had expected a degree of pain. He had _not_ expected the sudden flair of fever-like heat that swelled under his skin.

The feeling retreated. He heaved a puff of air, the momentary heat instantly fading. Claude only had a moment to feel confused at how little damage the spell did before he heard Linhardt grunt. As the spell finished, Linhardt gave a violent jerk, his eyes blowing wide. He took a staggered step backwards.

They stared at one another for a moment— Claude in confusion and a touch of worry, Linhardt with shock.

“...ow,” Linhardt whispered.

Claude closed the short distance between them. “You alright?”

“That… very much hurt.”

Claude’s worry spiked. “Isn’t that spell supposed to heal you?”

Linhardt ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Indeed. It’s similar to a healing spell in the sense that the user makes a connection with the target. The difference is that instead of urging the target’s life force to heal, it ‘lures’ that energy away from the target.”

Claude nodded. “Makes sense. Felt like you were trying to take something, vaguely.”

Linhardt huffed a laugh. “I don’t understand it, but whatever energy I stole from you was flat out incompatible with me. Like trying to add oil to water. You did say your crest felt like warmth, yes? The feeling of burning certainly fits.” Linhardt peered closer at Claude. “You _are_ human, yes? If you’re some form of shapeshifter or otherwise mythical creature, I promise I won’t judge.”

Claude scrunched up his face. “Uh, yes I’m human. Yeesh.” He felt mildly offended.

“Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Now, how about a healing spell?”

Claude cocked his head. “You still up to it?”

Linhardt nodded. “Absolutely. I’m making sure this headache I have is worth it.”

The heal spell trickled past Claude’s skin. Every spot it touched grew uncomfortably hot. It felt invasive. _Wrong._ Something that was burrowing its way into him, something that didn’t belong.

Claude shoved himself away from Linhardt, backing away with a few hasty steps. He shuddered, trying to get a hold of himself.

Linhardt’s face was perplexed, but not in pain this time. “Well that was different.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on a second go. Hope you got the info you needed.”

Linhardt hummed, bringing a hand up to his chin. “It’s like your system was fighting my magic. Very effectively too. Hm, perhaps Raphael’s comment about you having some form of ‘magic allergy’ holds some basis…”

Claude rubbed his hands along his arms, feeling twitchy. His skin seemed to skitter under his touch. “Allergy? I’m _allergic_ to faith magic? Is that even possible?”

Linhardt shrugged. “I’ve never heard of any cases of it, but there’s always a first time. I can’t say for certain, but it certainly fits your symptoms to a degree.” He snapped his fingers. “No, not quite! It’s like you have an incompatible blood type— but for magic! This is fascinating… If that _is_ the case, this could have massive implications for the entire field of study.”

Linhardt stepped back into Claude’s space, peering at his face. Uncomfortably close. Claude was a bit surprised Linhardt even knew what blood types were— Fódlan never used blood transfusions like Almyra occasionally did.

“I need to see your entire family tree. Are your parents alive? If so, I need to ask them some questions as well. Do you have any medical conditions passed down through the generations? What about—” 

Claude put up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, slow down there. Sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t give you any of those answers.”

“Not even for the sake of figuring out what’s wrong with you?”

Claude pasted on his old smile, if a bit sharp. “Not even for that. Sorry Linhardt, but you’ll have to make do with your current data points.”

That wasn’t the end of it. Linhardt pestered Claude every chance he got. Their friendship grew strained and Claude took to avoiding Linhardt entirely.

Not that it mattered. War was upon them.

  
  


* * *

_Claude was eighteen the first time a friend died in his arms._

Everything went south so fast.

His dream was crumbling to dust in his hands. But he couldn’t die here. Edelgard might be ruining his ambition, but he refused to die. 

_Protect Garreg Mach. Capture the strongholds. Don’t die._ Those were Teach’s orders.

He could do that.

Teach sent him and Lorenz to make their way to the east stronghold, Lysithea backing up their rear.

Claude took out the archers before they had the chance to get close enough to hit Lorenz or Lysithea. It was easy to dance between raining arrows. He made short work of every archer in his range.

Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye. His blood turned to ice.

“Lorenz!” he shouted and turned, racing to his fallen classmate. Lysithea screamed a wordless yell, magic erupting from her fingertips. The remaining Empire soldier was expunged under her spell.

But Claude wasn’t focusing on her.

Lorenz lay on the ground. His eyes were wide with terror, his hand shakily clutching at his stomach. Crimson splattered across the grass. Blood. Lorenz’s blood. A lot of Lorenz’s blood.

Claude threw his bow aside as he knelt next to Lorenz. He shoved his hands against the gaping axe wound on Lorenz’s stomach, trying to staunch what he could. He tried not to notice that he could see some of Lorenz’s organs. “Lysithea!” he shouted, “Get over here now!”

“To think…” Lorenz mumbled, his eyes locked onto Claude’s.

“Shut up! You’re not dying here!”

“To think I’d meet my end…”

“Lysithea! Hurry!” He shouted again, his desperate eyes meeting Lysithea’s.

She pushed his hands out of the way. Her hands lit in a familiar glow. He felt relief, until the glow faded and the wound was still just as wide as before. “I can’t… I can’t fix this,” her eyes filled with tears. She grit her teeth and tried again, her magic unable to do anything. “Claude, it’s too late—” Her wide eyes begged him, begged him to tell her some other way. She didn’t break eye contact even as a sob interrupted her, even as her face crumbled.

“That I’d meet my end… in a place like this…”

“No!” Claude shouted at Lorenz, gripping his shoulder. “You’re not _allowed_ to die, dammit!” 

Lorenz tried to smile. As if to say _‘it’s okay’_ or something equally noble and heroic. Instead his smile looked terrified.

An idea gripped him. He tore through his pockets, uncaring that he was getting Lorenz’s blood all over himself. “Just hold on, dammit, hold on…” He found what he was looking for. A simple, unlabeled bottle.

He bit down on the cork and yanked it out with his teeth. He brought the bottle over Lorenz’s still gasping body. He poured the silver liquid straight onto the wound.

Lorenz immediately arched his back, choking out some mix of a shriek and a wail. Claude didn’t know what the hell he was doing, or if he was even helping at all, but he kept pouring the silver liquid. Lorenz’s hands fisted into the grass and dirt as he writhed, but Claude didn’t stop. Not until the bottle was empty.

Lorenz screamed and screamed and _screamed._ Claude watched as the silver liquid seeped down into the wound. He watched with morbid fascination as skin began to close over the gaping hole.

After an eternity Lorenz’s screams died into choked sobs. 

With shaking hands, Lysithea ran glowing hands over his stomach. “He’s fully healed,” she whispered.

Claude nodded, not quite believing that his crazy plan worked. He turned his head and vomited into the bushes.

Heh, when had been the last time he’d vomited _actual_ vomit? It was weird. His mouth didn’t taste like sweet blood, it tasted like stomach acid and faintly of noodles. He stared down at his lunch. He’d forgotten real vomit looked so chunky.

Wiping his mouth, he scooted back over to Lorenz. Lorenz was pale, shaking, and had tear tracks down his face. But his purple eyes were wide and _alive._ Claude brought a hand down to Lorenz’s stomach. He wiped a thumb across red and silver fluid, showing pale skin below.

He fished out a handkerchief and wiped the worst of the mixed fluid away. He hissed as he noticed the mark. “Yeowch,” Claude croaked, “looks like that left a scar.”

A long strip of pale silvery scar tissue ran across Lorenz’s gut.

“I’m alive…” Lorenz whispered.

Claude’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah buddy, still alive.” He felt exhausted.

“Claude, how—?” Lysithea asked, her voice fragile.

“Flayn said my, uh… y’know, my stuff. She said it had healing properties. So I started carrying some around. Just in case.”

“Claude, you… you saved my life.”

He looked away. Lorenz was a pathetic sight, and Claude figured Lorenz would appreciate the illusion of privacy as he pulled himself back together. “Hey, you’d do the same for me. Can you stand? We’re still on a battlefield, after all.” As if to confirm Claude’s words, a _boom_ echoed nearby.

He helped Lorenz to his feet, and they didn’t speak of it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter this time. Now we hit the timeskip. I'm still not sure if I'm going to do five small chapters or one big chapter for the entire timeskip. So either expect a few rapid updates over the next week or one update like a week from now.


	11. Silver Grin

_ Claude was nineteen and drowning in responsibility. _

Claude had gotten very good at concealing his ‘condition’. It was a necessity. It had been important when he had been the heir apparent, but now he was the Leader of the Alliance. If information of his ‘illness’ spread, it would be more than enough justification to have him removed.

To think only a year ago he had been a (relatively) carefree schoolboy. The past year felt like a decade. His grandfather hadn’t even lasted half a year into the war, throwing everything onto Claude’s shoulders. Balancing the factions within the Alliance was difficult on a good day— and there were no good days in war. He was stacking a house of cards. Except he could only stack the cards with his elbows. In the dark. And the cards were rabid dogs. And there was a 5’2 pillar of fire just waiting to burn his house of cards to the ground and salt the earth.

He was a little stressed.

Stars bless Hilda and Lorenz. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without them. Claude wasn’t blind to the irony of leaning on Lazy Hilda and I-Hate-Riegan Lorenz. Not that either of them had been that way by the end of the school term anyways. In public he and Lorenz fought tooth and nail. It made things easier when people thought they hated one another. Privately, they’d become decent friends. Friends! Him, Claude von Riegan, friends with Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. 

War did funny things to people.

Beyond their political help, Claude would have been dead in the water without their help hiding his occasional bouts of vomiting; mostly the lethargy that plagued him afterwards. There was a war going on, there wasn’t  _ time _ for him to pass out for half a day.

He didn’t see much combat anymore, thank the Stars for small blessings. If he still used his crest daily, he might as well give the Alliance to Lorenz and head back home. He kept his crest use to the bare minimum. He stayed in shape, kept up with his training, but he didn’t see much action.

Every so often though, his skin would start to itch with a familiar heat. After about a month without his crest it would bug him. Two months was the longest he had managed to stave it off so far and that had been miserable.

Between Hilda, Lorenz, and himself, they always figured out some kind of excuse to get him out of the Roundtable discussions for a day or two most months. He’d slip away, hunt a few animals until his crest popped out, and trek home.

Like he was doing now.

Unless he was desperate, he didn’t hunt on his own lands. Usually he had an errand to run or some simple but important seeming task to do as a reason why he was out. He could already hear the bickering if the other nobles thought he fucked off once a month to go on a ‘fun’ hunt.

This particular excursion had him looking for a rather specific traveling mercenary company. Providing his intel was correct, it was the company Leonie currently ran with. The fact that the company was in the backwaters of nowhere was a happy coincidence, giving him more than enough opportunity to find game to hunt.

He’d been tracking down all of his former classmates in a little side project of his, handing out vials of silver. Just in case. It was still surreal to hand out bottles of his vomit as healing potions, but Claude was nothing if not pragmatic. 

He made sure to impress the importance on his former classmates that they were  _ only _ to be used as a last resort. He had dropped off a jar of the stuff with Lysithea for her to research in her spare time, but in the meantime he had no idea how the stuff worked. He knew the stuff made some nasty scar tissue when used on a lethal wound. He knew that if that scar tissue was injured again, the wound could only heal naturally— Lorenz had the misfortune of learning that when Marianne was unable to heal a slim cut he received over his stomach. But if there were any other side effects, only time would tell.

It didn’t sit right with him, handing out a ‘miracle heal’ that he didn’t understand. Still, if it was life or death, he wanted to make sure the option was there. Better to be alive with potential unknown side effects than to die.

While walking through the small town, something caught his eye. Some _ one. _ Without missing a beat, he turned around and followed the pair of hooded figures. Few people had that specific coloring. He followed the pair for a few minutes. At one point the taller one placed a hand on the shorter one’s shoulder, steering them both into an empty alley.

Claude couldn’t help but smile. He’d been noticed. 

He followed them into the alley, already anticipating the attack. He twisted to the side as the taller figure rounded on him, dagger scraping against the stone wall.

“Hey now, that’s no way to greet an old friend!” He threw back his hood and tossed them a grin.

The two figures jerked in surprise.

“Claude?” Flayn asked, vibrant green eyes peeking out from under her hood.

“Nope, it’s me, Lorenz.” Claude brought his hand up to his face in the haughty way Lorenz always did. “Why I could never pass a lady on the street without assaulting them with unwelcome advances!”

Flayn giggled, and Claude relaxed.

“I have to ask. Whatever is the leader of the Alliance doing in a small town like this?” Seteth asked, cautious as always.

Claude waved a hand. “Business. Y’know. Stuff. And you guys?”

Seteth glared at him. “Business. And stuff. You know.”

Claude grinned. “That’s the spirit! Now, no promises, but is there anything I can do for an old classmate and teacher of mine?”

Seteth shook his head. “We appreciate the offer, but no. We are keeping a low profile for now.”

“Actually, there is something,” Flayn said. “I’ve been trying to come visit you since Garreg Mach fell, but my  _ dear _ brother hasn’t allowed it.”

Seteth sighed. “Flayn. We’ve been over this.”

“D’aw, I’m touched to be the reason for a family feud. I’ve missed your company too, Flayn.”

“You had best watch yourself, Riegan,” Seteth hissed.

Flayn kicked his shin. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. With your,” she made a nonsensical gesture around her face, “you know. Bleh thing.”

Claude snorted at the look on Seteth’s face. “Bleh thing.” Seteth cocked an eyebrow.

Claude nodded, going along with it. “Yep, bleh thing.” He made a so-so gesture. “I’ve been managing. Gets, ah… ‘itchy’ after about a month. But it’s manageable— much better than when we were in school.”

“I would appreciate an explanation.”

Claude shrugged. “It’s a Golden Deer thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Flayn nodded. “Exactly. You wouldn’t understand, brother. Besides, we have Healer-patient confidentiality.”

“Your avoidance is concerning— ow! Flayn!”

Flayn looked too innocent to have just kicked Seteth’s shin again. “Is it getting worse though?”

Claude shrugged. “Slowly, sure. Like I said though, it’s manageable. Don’t worry about me— you’re the one in hiding. I’ve got a nice cushy mansion.” An idea struck him. “Ah! Hold on, let me fish out a little gift for the two of you…” He fumbled through his bag. He pulled out two slim vials of shimmering silver. “I know you’re great at healing and everything, but have these just to be safe. I’ve been handing these little elixirs out to all the former Deer when I have the chance. You know how potent this stuff is.”

Flayn nodded and accepted the gift. “Though I hope we will not need these, I thank you.”

  
  
  


* * *

_ Claude was twenty the first time he touched Failnaught. _

Failnaught was a comfort he couldn’t properly explain.

When his grandfather first passed, Claude had avoided the bow. Memories of Miklan and the demonic  _ thing _ he became haunted his thoughts. Sure, Sylvain had been fine with the lance. But Claude already knew his crest wasn’t the standard. It would be just his luck to learn that his mutated crest couldn’t protect him from the relics.

That wasn’t the case though. There was a sort of draw he felt towards Failnaught. When he finally did pick it up, a sense of  _ this is right, this is how it is supposed to be _ filled him. It filled him with a sense of wholeness. His mind felt clearer when he gripped the bow, his body stronger.

Having learned his lesson back in school, he made sure to ask Hilda and Lorenz about Friekugel and Thrysus. Just as he feared, they had no idea what he meant. To them, while the relics felt  _ alive _ in an unnatural manner, they didn’t mesh like his did.

Recently he had taken to sleeping with Failnaught nearby. Not just nearby, but in his hands. Laid across his bare chest. Crest stone right above his beating heart. Sometimes he swore the creststone beat back.

Sometimes, right at the edge of sleep, he could swear he heard it whispering to him. On his worse nights, it seemed to sing to him, lulling him to sleep with soft lullabies just at the edge of thought.

He didn’t tell anyone about that part.

When he slept with Failnaught his nights were safe from nightmares. No nightmares of choking on a never ending stream of silver. No nightmares of dying with his dream left unfinished. No nightmares of shifting into a silver variant of Miklan. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would dream of the night sky. He would dream of tugging along a hazy-faced friend with green hair. The two of them would lay side by side and point at constellations all night long.

He always woke up feeling oddly nostalgic from those dreams.

Failnaught took the edge off his crest. With Failnaught in his hands, his skin never itched with the burn of his crest, his heart never shuddered under the heat of his crest. His crest channeled so naturally when he had Failnaught. He’d gotten better at controlling the power in normal combat, but with Failnaught it was complete mastery. He could trigger it on command. It felt  _ better  _ when he used Failnaught.

In what was becoming a guilty pleasure of his, sometimes he took comfort in the bow after a long day of politics. Only when he was alone. He wasn’t doing anything  _ wrong _ exactly, but it was…a bit embarrassing. It was a bit unwieldy to holster over his back when he sat down to do paperwork, but the comfort it exuded more than made up for it. That wasn’t so bad, but it was in his more idle moments that he knew would get him some worried side-eyes from Hilda and Lorenz. In his few free moments, alone in his room, he had taken to…petting Failnaught. Sitting the bow along his lap and running his hand along the strange, almost bone-like material.

He couldn’t put to words  _ why _ he did it. Worst of all, he was starting to  _ talk _ to the bow. He wasn’t stupid enough to say anything that could get him in trouble if he was heard. He only ever whispered to the bow, always paranoid he might be overheard. A part of him longed to whisper words in his mother tongue— how long had it been since he’d spoken a word of Almyran? A part of him worried he was forgetting the language, as ridiculous as it sounded. But if someone overheard him talking to his bow, that was one thing. If someone overheard him speaking  _ Almyran, _ that would be a serious issue. 

So instead he merely whispered about his day. About how he was tired, about how he was afraid he wouldn’t ever be enough. About how he was terrified that one day all his schemes and plans would come crashing down around him and kill the few people in his life that he cared about. About how he was probably dying with no cure in sight. He whispered about how he missed home, just a little bit. About how he missed the food, missed the music and the feasts and the smells and the colors and how he missed his culture. About how he missed his parents, and  _ wasn’t that pathetic? He was a man, 20 years old, and he missed his mama and daddy. What a weakling he was, an incompetent leader and— _

Whenever he started whispering negativity, he never could finish his tirade. Maybe that was why he liked holding Failnaught. He  _ had  _ to be imagining it, but sometimes he swore he heard a soothing murmur. In his head, it always felt like someone throwing a warm and cozy blanket over his worries and insecurities.

Clearly the stress was eating away at his sanity. But when it came down to it, out of all the stress-reducing vices Claude could have chosen to unwind, he figured pretending his bow could hear him was pretty tame.

He did have his concerns, though. For one, Failnaught’s creststone was changing. It was turning silver. He wasn’t sure what that meant.

* * *

_ Claude was twenty-one, and he hated political dinners. _

Feasts were supposed to be  _ fun, _ but apparently Fódlan never got the message. Political dinners were the furthest thing from fun. His natural suspicion for food prepared by untrustworthy people didn’t help either. He was certain the only reason he hadn’t been poisoned in the past three years was due to sheer force of paranoia.

Claude was tired. He was still working through the last dregs of his last bout of crest-use. He’d slept a full ten hours after he vomited (nearly two buckets worth, which was still alarming,) but he felt one foot in the grave through sheer fatigue alone. Unfortunately, politics never slept, and so here he was, picking at his dinner in Fódlan’s driest and most boring practice: political meetings over dinner. At least back in Almyra the people had the common sense to know (debatably) important discussions and (debatably) delicious food were best done separately. 

He was a few sips into a glass of wine when he realized he recognized the odd taste. It was faint. Diluted. 

Very casually he sat his glass down. It seemed his paranoia had grown lax. He took a careful look at the nobles around him.

“Gentlemen, pardon me. I’ll return in a few moments,” he said with an easy smile. He stood up and made for the door.

“Duke Riegan, whatever could be so important?” Count Gelov flashed him a knowing smirk.

Claude smiled in return. “I’ll be back in just a moment, don’t worry yourself.”

He shut the door behind him and took a moment to take a deep breath.

_ Fuck. _

He hadn’t recognized the bitter taste of almonds until after he drank over half of his  _ fucking  _ drink. The reality of it crashed over him.

_ Cyanide. Fuck. _

Careless.  _ Stupid! _ He knew better! He’d been distracted, but that was no excuse.

He didn’t have anything to fix it. Cyanide worked fast, he knew that. How long did he have? Minutes?

Alone, back pressed up against the wall, he allowed his mask to break for a moment.  _ He was about to die. _

He blinked, realizing he felt fine (other than the stress). He was a touch dizzy, but he was pretty sure that was from not eating (he usually forgot unless Hilda sat on him). His heartbeat was going a bit fast, but of  _ course _ it was, he just ingested a  _ lethal dose of poison, fuck. _ But no headache. No vomiting (for once in his damned life). His chest wasn’t tight, his breathing was fine.

He felt (relatively) fine.

_ Huh. _

Well, in that case… 

He about-faced and returned to the roundtable. One of the nobles had a  _ particularly  _ smug look on his face. Claude’s charming smile and unaffected facade wiped that smug look away.

“My apologies. Let us continue,” Claude picked up his mostly empty glass, swirling the liquid. “Oh, but one thing. I’m rather disappointed, Count Gelov. Cyanide? Really? Very sloppy.”

“Excuse me?” The noble in question reared back. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

Claude shrugged. “The taste of almonds is fine, I suppose, but surely you could have done better?”

“You’re just trying to undermine me. There’s nothing but wine in your glass.”

“Care to take a sip?”

The Count paled. “Well, I—”

Claude took a small sip himself. “Well, if you didn’t ‘spike’ my wine, what’s your worry?”

The Count eyed the glass. “Pah. Filthy, but I’ll prove you a liar. Hand it over.”

Claude did so. “I recommend only a small sip.”

The man glared daggers. Claude noted he only took the smallest of sips. He passed the glass back. “See? Duke Riegan is attempting to discredit me.”

“You are aware I’m immune to poisons, yes?” Claude lied.

“I— pah, that’s impossible.” It was impossible, but Claude wasn’t about to call his own bluff.

Claude shrugged. “Well, apologies for the interruption, gentlemen. We can continue.”

A few minutes later and the count bent over and vomited.

“It was a good try,” Claude said as he patted the man’s back. “Afraid you’ll be charged with attempts to assassinate the sovereign Duke of the Alliance though. I’d say I’m sorry, but you  _ did _ try to kill me.”

After a few confessions from the cooking staff implicating Count Gelov and it was all over for the man. Hours after everything wrapped up, Claude felt a very familiar nausea. Alone in his chambers he pulled out his puke bucket as a precaution and waited. Sure enough, a few minutes later he was spitting out a few mouthfuls of silver. He hadn’t spat out such a small amount of bile in a very long time.

His crest never even activated.

He wondered if that should count as death number six.

Another mystery to add to himself.

* * *

_ Claude was twenty-two, and he was dying. _

Hilda placed a hand on his cheek. He avoided her eyes. They always got big and sad when she did this.

“Hilda, you shouldn’t worry so much.” He didn’t say he was fine, because they both knew that was a lie. He didn’t say she had nothing to worry about, because there were plenty of reasons to be worried.

“Just eat the stupid porridge.” He did so, ignoring the way she ran a thumb down his cheekbone. “I like your new jacket,” she commented. “Looks warm.”

“It is. Cozy, too.” Nader had delivered the clothes recently. They were subtle enough to not scream Almyra (though the sash from his mother that he insisted on wearing was pushing it). The yellow quilted cloth was designed for the cold air that wyvern riders often dealt with. On the ground, it had the bonus of hiding how much weight he’d lost.

He should send his parents a letter. To inform them that they should try for a new heir.

He’d put it off for another day. Or another year.

His current problem was the way his face was growing gaunt. He had started on a beard (as much as he could grow one. He wished he inherited his father’s ability to grow a beard). Unfortunately, it did little to hide his face.

Hilda jammed food down his throat every chance she got. He ate whenever he could (though he did forget every so often… or most of the time, actually). It didn’t seem to matter how much or what he ate, nothing stuck. He hadn’t had any fat to lose in the first place. They both knew his weight loss wasn’t because he didn’t always remember to eat. Even if he wasn’t constantly stressed, even if he could rest as often as his body demanded, even if he ate and ate and ate until he couldn’t move… He knew it wouldn’t matter. His crest burned through it all and demanded even more.

There was a helpless sort of feeling to it all.

At least he wasn’t any weaker. Small mercies. If it wasn’t for how bony he felt, he wouldn’t even notice how much he was wasting away. He was still strong as ever, stronger than he’d been back in school. He felt in his prime. Despite the way his skin clung to the thin muscle that ran over his bones, his strength was on par with Leonie. He wasn’t Hilda levels of strong, but not many people were.

Overall he just felt sore. His body ached. The longer he went without using his crest, the worse it got. Even after using his crest, there was a constant background of ache. His joints hurt. His skin hurt. Everything had a low thrum of  _ ache, ache, ache. _ If he waited too long to release his crest he got shakes.

His thinness was becoming more noticeable. He’d seen the way Judith’s eyes were beginning to linger, the way her forehead wrinkled. If she was starting to notice, he really was running out of time.

It wasn’t just eating either. He couldn’t sleep naturally anymore. No matter how long he stayed awake he couldn’t sleep unless he’d used his crest. He didn’t feel tired, even after days of wakefulness. He felt rather strung out after a while, worn thin, but not tired. He only ever felt tired after his crest. The only other way he could sleep was with Failnaught tucked under his arms like some kind of morbid, twitching teddy bear. Failnaught managed to ease the racing in his blood somehow.

Hilda drew her hand away from his face. She hummed. “Want to learn how to contour? That’ll hide some of your cheeks.” She pulled out a small box of makeup.

To hell with it, might as well.

“I wish I could stay,” she said a few hours later. Claude had to admit, he was impressed with Hilda’s handywork. She was a good teacher— he was confident he’d be able to pull off a close rendition. The way she masked his cheekbone and accentuated his cheeks gave the illusion that he had at least a scrap of meat on his face.

“You’re just saying that because it’s less work staying here.”

Hilda scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Yeah right. Whether I’m here in Derdriu or back home I’m swamped with things to do. I wish this stupid war would end so I could be lazy in peace.”

Claude chuckled. “I can’t disagree with the sentiment. How’s the border doing, anyways?” He felt a pang of homesickness that he promptly ignored. He wondered how his parents were doing. He felt another pang as he realized he might never see his home again. He always knew he might die during his stay in Fódlan, but it still stung to think he might die so far from home. 

If he was lucky he would die under the night sky. That, at least, was the same night sky as Almyra’s.

“My  _ brother  _ says it’s boring and quiet.” She gave an exaggerated eye roll. “We had a skirmish a month ago! How is that quiet?!”

“They send only small groups to fight and usually don’t even attack to the death. It’s a far cry from how it used to be, according to the history books.”

“Ugh, fighting is still fighting.” Hilda shuddered. “Goddess, I’m so happy I wasn’t alive during the war with Almyra. I’m sure all the tales are exaggerated, but still! My father used to scare me with stories about the ‘Undying Moonstealer of Almyra’. I had nightmares about that for years!”

The title caught his attention. “Undying Moonstealer? That sounds like quite the story…” 

“Noooo, I’ll have nightmares if I talk about it! I’m gonna have nightmares already, I can feel it!”

Claude rolled his eyes. “Yeah right. Come on Hilda, you’ve piqued my interest! You know how annoying I can get when I want something…”

She gave an exaggerated sigh, flopping over onto his bed. “Fiiine. But only if you tell me one of your weird childhood stories afterwards to help me calm down.”

“Deal.”

“Alright, let’s see…” She ran a hand through her hair. “Back during the war against Almyra there was a big battle. The Alliance was bolstered with forces from the Empire and they outnumbered the invaders. It was supposed to be a landslide victory against the Almyrans. The combined forces of Fódlan thought the Almyrans would retreat, since they were being slaughtered. But they didn’t retreat. The Almyrans fought like feral beasts, uncaring about how many of their numbers died. Through sheer ferocity alone the Almyrans brought the army of Fódlan to a standstill. The fighting lasted into the night. Even though it was night, they still fought, the only light on the battlefield coming from the full moon. With evil magics and witchery, the Almyrans were able to see better in the dark. The tide was turning, but that wasn’t what lost the battle for Fódlan. There was a woman that commanded the Almyrans. She must’ve been real dedicated to Almyra, because she had the Almyran symbol tattooed across her entire face.”

Claude kept himself from stiffening. That sounded like a King’s Mark.

“The general of the Alliance army realized if he could kill the woman, the whole command structure would fail. Surely without their leader barking orders to keep fighting, the Almyrans would realize they were allowed to retreat. Finally he succeeded, lancing the Almyran commander through the stomach. But here’s the scary thing— that didn’t stop her! She smiled, her teeth sharpening like a beast’s. Her wound glowed white, just like the moon. She killed the commander with his own spear, ripping it out of her own chest! Her hair and eyes went from black to blinding luminescence. By using an evil Almyran ritual, she stole power from the moon itself. Since she was glowing in the middle of night, it drew knights of Fódlan to her like a beacon. But it was a trap! Whenever she was injured, her wounds bled moonlight and she kept going like she wasn’t injured at all. No one could stop her as she tore through the Allied forces. She killed every last Fódlan knight, drinking their blood in order to feed her evil ritual. The only ones that lived to tell the tale were the ones that fled. Only when she had no living people left to steal the life of did she finally collapse and die.”

Claude recognized the story.  _ Esfandi the Tempest. _ Esfandi had been a great general during the war. Born the daughter of a simple blacksmith, she proved her strength and wit by climbing the ranks of the army. The giant King’s Mark across her face ensured she faced harsher trials than others— she was expected to live up to her birthright and not be handed it on a silver platter. Those bearing King’s Marks, especially highly visible ones, never had it easy. Claude would know, and his wasn't even visible most of the time. Unlike in Fódlan where nobles were assumed to have already proved themselves worthy simply by being born, Almyra expected great things. Esfandi had been a hugely popular candidate to succeed the throne even before the war— but she time and time again scoffed at politics.

It was said that those born with King’s Marks could never fall before a battle was finished. Stories like Esfandi the Tempest only added to that legend. Claude’s own grandfather supposedly died in a similar manner: carving through enemies and only falling when the battle ended. Esfandi was still celebrated as a great warrior. She was hailed as an Almyran General that won an impossible battle, forcing victory through sheer will alone. 

Hearing the Fódlan take on the story… well, he wasn’t surprised. It still twisted something in his gut to hear a childhood hero of his spoken of as a villain. He had studied that battle often when he was younger. There was no evil ritual. There was no blood drinking. It was just the King’s Mark and determination to win. 

“Alright, I held my end of the bargain! Gah, I hate that story. Pretty sure my father just made it up anyways. But with Almyrans you never know! My brother says they use really weird magic over there.”

“Gosh, you’re  _ so _ brave Hilda.” Claude fluttered his eyelashes at her, smirking. “Telling the tale of a warrior dead for over two centuries— that takes real guts.”

Hilda bopped his shoulder. “Oh shut it. The Almyrans are scary! It’s like they have no self preservation. What kind of awful place is their country that they throw themselves at the border? I just don’t get it.”

“I don’t know, back in school when we took a trip to the Locket, they didn’t seem to be ‘throwing’ themselves at the wall. Almyra is a warrior culture, so I’ve heard. Kinda like Brigid, you know, where our former classmate Petra was from? Petra was plenty nice, if a little different. I figure Almyra’s no better or worse than Fódlan— just different.”

Hilda tilted her head, frowning. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how that head of yours works. I don’t care if they have a ‘warrior culture’, they’re all savages! And I mean, Petra  _ was _ pretty nice, but she was a little, y’know, simple, don’t you think?”

“Considering she knew two vastly different languages, I wouldn’t consider her ‘simple’ at all.” It was only with years of practice that he kept his true disgust at Hilda’s dismissal from his voice. He was used to that kind of thinking, both from home and from Fódlan, but it still hurt to be reminded that his best friend would hate him if she knew where he was from.

Hilda groaned, flopping back on the bed. “She thought a  _ garland of teeth _ made for a good necklace! Can you imagine if she had shown up to the ball wearing that? Saints, don’t get me started on her conversation topics. I mean, I wanted to be nice when she came to our ‘girl nights’ at school, but she never wanted to talk about anything interesting. Hunting, fighting, and competition were all she ever talked about! At least she liked flowers, even if her taste was weird.”

Maybe bringing up Petra had been a mistake. “I held plenty of nice conversations with Petra. She taught me how to climb trees, you know. She was a riot at parties too.”

Hilda shook her head. “You mean like the time she joined in that eating contest with Raph, Caspar, and Ingrid? That was disgusting.” She gave a long drawn out sigh. “I mean, I  _ guess _ she wasn’t bad or anything. Like you said, she was different. Weird. I can’t imagine growing up somewhere like Brigid, or like Almyra. ‘Warrior culture’, like you said… I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

Claude rubbed his beard. “Warrior cultures, they’re finicky things. The most warrior-y country I can think of… they put live steel in the hands of children at the age of four, training them for battle. They’re taught to fight before they’re taught to read or write.”

Hilda nodded. “Exactly! What if the kid stabs themself?”

“Their culture is entrenched in honoring the dead more than the living. I once heard a father from there declare that he was proud that his son died in a tragedy, and that if his son had fled he would have disowned the boy.”

“ Uh-huh, it’s so barbaric!” 

“That’s not even talking about the genocide they unleashed on a defenseless neighboring country. Supposedly someone from the neighboring country killed their ruler. Despite the flimsy evidence, they wiped out every last man, woman, and child that they could.”

“Wait really? Wow, I didn’t hear about that. That’s awful!”

“I’ve heard they even give each other weapons as courting gifts some of the time.” 

“Gosh, you know a lot about Almyra.”

Claude raised an eyebrow. “Almyra? Oh, no. I was talking about Faerghus. They’re the most warrior-y culture I can think of.”

Hilda choked on her spit. “Whu— wait, what?”

He shrugged. “It’s all a matter of perspective. If people take the time to look at each other and drop their biases, you can learn a lot. Anything can sound evil if you spin it right— just like how anything can sound virtuous.”

Hilda rolled her eyes. “What, you’re saying next time I have to defend the locket, I should drop my axe and ask the Almyrans to join me for a tea party?”

Claude shook his head. “Of course not. They  _ are _ invading the border, after all. Besides, do they even have tea parties in Almyra? That’s a cultural practice of Fódlan. They’d probably think you were mocking them.”

Hilda threw back her head and groaned. “Why are we even talking politics? Can’t you leave that at the roundtable?”

Claude pasted a smile on his face. “Ah, what can I say. It’s in my blood.” He tried not to sound disappointed. Maybe someday he could get through to her. Maybe. If he was having this much difficulty getting Hilda,  _ his best friend, _ to understand, what did that say about the rest of Fódlan?

“Now it’s your turn to hold up your end of the bargain. Weird childhood stories, chop-chop!”

“Alright, alright. Let’s see… How about the time I tried to pull a prank on my training instructor? I only ever tried it the one time, I learned my lesson pretty quick…”

  
  
  


* * *

_Claude was twenty-three, and he was done waiting._

Five years. It felt so much longer than that. Decades, maybe.

He was surprised he’d lasted so long.

He refused to die. Not yet. He still had work to do. He knew he probably wouldn’t have enough time to see his dream to completion, but he could at least set the ball rolling. He  _ refused _ to die before that.

Feeling nostalgic, he made his way up the Goddess Tower. The darkness didn’t bother him, didn’t deter his vision at all. For the past year he’d avoided this exact kind of darkness with fervor. His eyes glowed all the time now. It was a faint glow. No one noticed it in daylight. If anything, it gave his face a glow of life. His eyes seemed to shine in a way people couldn’t quite explain— until they saw him in the darkness, at least. It was something to keep people’s eyes from his sunken cheeks, even with Hilda’s makeup lessons in full effect.

In the dark, he knew his eyes shone like a beacon. His night vision was fantastic, sure. But glowing green lights made it impossible to sneak around at night. Worse, it hampered his ability to attend nighttime roundtable meetings. The candle-lit meetings he did attend from time to time were exceedingly stressful. He was certain the only reason his eyes hadn’t been found out yet was due to the absurdity of it.

He wondered what Teach would say when they saw him. He wondered how different they would look. For some reason, he couldn’t imagine them any differently from when he last saw them.

It was childish to hope Teach would have a way out for him. If he was going to pin his hopes on anyone, he should be hoping for Flayn or Linhardt or Lysithea. Other than Flayn, he’d been in contact with the two over the years. Thank the Stars Linhardt had defected from the Empire early in the war. Despite everything, there just wasn’t  _ time _ for any of them to research a way to help him. He didn’t blame them for that. Lysithea especially— she understood the value of time.

_ Time. _ He wondered how many years he had left. Whatever the number, Claude was certain it would be a single digit. He had managed his crest with the utmost care for the past five years. Despite that, he was running out of time. At the end of his time at Garreg Mach, he could go up to two months without needing to pull out his crest. Now he could barely wait two weeks.

Failnaught pulsed from where it rested over his chest. Somehow, it always seemed to know when his thoughts started to spiral. He gave it a pat and a mental thanks.

Failnaught beat in time with his heart. It always did that now. He found it comforting.

He missed Teach. If nothing else, it’d be nice to see them again before he died.


	12. Silver Smile

Claude was the happiest he’d been in five years.

Everyone was laughing and hugging. Raphael even lifted him off his feet entirely to swing him in a twirling hug. Teach was back. Everyone had shown up. Even Linhardt managed to make it on time. Flayn and Seteth looked the same as always, just as Teach hadn’t changed either.

For the first time in five years his grand schemes were finally coming together. Seteth set out a call for the Knights of Seiros. Come morning they would begin to fix up the ruined monastery.

As wonderful as the reunion was, he knew he would be forced to excuse himself soon.

He’d taken a solid slice to the shoulder while cleaning up the bandits. Being just him and Teach at the time, he didn’t have anyone else to fall back on. His crest was the obvious option. At Teach’s worried look during the fight, he took the time to assure them that he’d gotten control over the pesky little thing over the years.  _ He was fine. _ If they interpreted that as  _ complete _ control, well… that just meant they would worry less.

He hated to leave  _ now _ though. Everyone was having such a good time.  _ He _ was having a good time, dammit.

He stood and bid everyone a good night.

Hilda and Lorenz immediately recognized his excuse for what it was. These days, even without the use of his crest, sometimes he was struck with bouts of jitters. A jittery Claude did  _ not _ make pleasant company. The two of them immediately began performing their usual game to get him a proper excuse to leave.

It was different with a group of old friends though. They weren’t a crew of nobles to be fooled.

“What’dya mean you’re going to bed?! Did you become an old man while we weren’t looking?” Raphael teased and grabbed him by the shoulder. “You’re so skinny! At least eat a bit more before turning in.”

“Yeah Claude, why’re you so eager to get rid of us? Huh?” Leonie jabbed a stick of jerky at him, smiling.

Claude waved a hand in front of him. “You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

“We haven’t seen each other in so long, we have so much to catch up on,” Ignatz added.

They  _ were _ right of course. Claude longed to stay around them a bit longer. Only Teach had seen him use his Crest after all… 

“Please stay a bit longer?” Teach’s request was quiet. He knew they were feeling overwhelmed— how could he blame them? Sleeping through five years, he’d be overwhelmed too.

it only took four seconds for Claude to crumble. He swallowed, estimating he could hold back the nausea for a while longer. An hour or two, probably. He gave a laugh and rolled his eyes. “I just can’t say no to that, I suppose. I’ve been outvoted!” He plopped down beside Teach.

“But, Claude—” Hilda began.

Claude waved a hand. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I can stay up a bit longer.”  _ I’ve got more time. _

She pressed her lips together, wanting to disagree. Then Marianne was distracting her, and Claude was free.

“Today might be a day to celebrate, but you can’t be careless with yourself,” Lorenz swooped in to be the buzzkill.

Claude groaned, hanging his head. “Let me have a little fun for once in my life.”

Seteth placed a hand on Lorenz’s shoulder, an uncharacteristically light smile on his face. “Everyone needs some downtime. Just for tonight.”

Claude let everyone misinterpret Hilda and Lorenz’s concerns. He didn’t need more people worried for him.

As night began to fall, they set up a small campfire. Raphael brought a few fallen logs over as benches. They began sharing stories, updating each other about the past five years. 

Teach was growing uncomfortable the more the conversation went on— again, Claude couldn’t blame them. He couldn’t imagine waking up five years in the future, old friends having moved on with their lives in the meantime. So he set out to distract them. He started pointing out constellations to them. Slowly the others grew quiet as he pointed out star after star. Claude knew he was giving out information that could be used to trace his roots back to Almyra, but for tonight he didn’t care. He pointed to the star  _ Loptous _ and the constellation of the  _ Council of Twelve _ surrounding it. Leonie named it as  _ Orion’s Shield, _ having no name for the star in the middle. Seteth pointed to the very same and called it  _ The Divine Seat. _

Claude would point to a star or constellation and name it, sometimes tossing out a small summary of a story. If any of the Golden Deer knew the Fódlan equivalent, they shared. Seteth always had a different name for it, though to their mutual surprise sometimes his name matched up with Claude’s.    


He pointed to a faint star, one he knew most of the Deer would recognize. “That ones’s the Silent star. Sometimes called the nameless star. It’s got a name attached to it like most of the other stars, but it’s said to be bad luck to say aloud. Thus, the silent and nameless star.”

Seteth gave him a curious look. “I have also known it as the Silent star, though that is a rather archaic term for it. Where did you learn—.”

“Oh, I know that one!” Raphael cried. “That’s the Blue Sea star! This is probably one of the last nights it’ll be visible until the next Blue Sea Moon, huh. That’s another six months away… Claude, stargazing was a good idea!”

If it wasn’t for the nausea crawling along his throat, Claude was certain this would be his favorite memory.

“That one’s the Guiding King,” he pointed to the brightest, to his favorite, “said to be the star of fate.”

“The northern star?” Leonie gestured to the same. “Huh, that’s a cool name for it. Accurate too. It is a bit of a guiding light. My da taught me how to orientate myself if I ever got lost using that star.”

“What about that one? Does that one have a name?” Teach asked, pointing to a particular twinkling star near the horizon.

Claude smiled. “Ooh, good eye Teach, that’s one of my favorites. Xane, the Shifting star. Also known as the star of mischief, said to favor those who wander. If you look at it with a telescope it actually changes colors.”

“Telescope? What’s that?” Ignatz asked.

Claude blinked, not expecting the question. “A telescope…? You know, to see the night sky better? Makes things look bigger, ringing any bells?” 

Seteth cleared his throat. “Such distance viewers as you are describing are banned artifacts,  _ Claude. _ You would do well to not spread heresy.”

“Banned? Huh?” He jerked a thumb at Ignatz. “You gonna ban glasses too then? A telescope isn’t some sort of  _ dark magic _ or whatever the church preaches. It’s just glass.” He waved a hand through the air. “Besides, the church isn’t in much of a position to enforce such a silly rule anyways.”

Seteth’s face pinched. “You are not incorrect.” He paused, seeming to war with himself for a moment. “I will admit, personally I never agreed with the ban. Nonetheless, I would request that you do not go spreading dangerous information around. Or dangerous  _ artifacts, _ should you be in possession of such a distance viewer.”

Well that just made him want to ship a whole cartload of telescopes from home and start passing them out. “No promises,” he said with a wink.

“Claude, I apologize if this is out of turn, but… are your eyes glowing?” Ignatz was the first to notice.

Claude nodded. He knew it wasn’t something he could hide from them for long, so he didn’t even bother. He leaned back and tilted his head away from the fire. “Yeah, they do that now.” He ran a hand across his forehead, flicking away sweat. It was a bit warm out, but the sweat was cold. He swallowed his discomfort. His nausea was becoming very difficult to ignore.

There was a moment of silence, broken by Leonie’s snort. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just— of course  _ you _ would just be so matter of fact about something so weird.”

Linhardt bent forward and scootched closer to Claude. “Now that  _ is  _ fascinating. How did this come to be?”

“Claude,” Flayn interrupted, her voice grave. “Last time they were like that, five years ago… After you,” she glanced at Seteth, “with the ‘bleh’ thingy…” 

“Yeah, they do it permanently now. I’ve got great night vision.”

“Oh, it’s caused by the ‘Remire’ thing?” Leonie commented. “That’s a weird side effect.”

“Am I the only one out of the loop?” Seteth huffed.

Claude waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it, it’s no big d-deal,” he grimaced, his throat catching as he felt a wave of nausea.

“Now you’ve done it. Dumbass.” Hilda rolled her eyes. “Go. To. Bed.”

Claude felt the color drain from his face, the heat coiling in his stomach demanding his attention. “Heh, y-yeah, I’ve put it off long enough. I’m off to, y’know. The thingy.”

“Wait,  _ now?” _

“That’s why you were leaving earlier? Why didn’t you say something?!”

“It still happens, after all these years?”

“Yeah, uh-huh, uh,” Claude stood, feeling a bit guilty for making a quick exit, but he  _ really _ had put it off longer than he meant to.

Lorenz cursed, standing up. “Hilda, he’s not going to make it.” Lorenz steadied Claude as he felt himself start to tip, his legs shaking. Lorenz gently eased him to kneel on the ground.

“It’s his own fault,” but Hilda stood up too. “Flayn, distract your brother!”

“Excuse me?!”

“Brother, if you do not come with me  _ right now _ I will be very cross!”

Claude slammed a hand over his mouth, groaning.  _ Dammit,  _ he  _ hated _ doing this in front of others. He heard the sound of Flayn dragging Seteth away. A few seconds passed and he couldn’t hold it any longer.

He spared a moment to be grateful that the hill they were on was a decline as he puked his guts out. Hilda rubbed circles on his back as he retched, Lorenz holding his shoulder steady so that he didn’t fall face first into his own fluids.

“Brother!” He heard Flayn’s angry shout, and resigned himself to Seteth being brought in on his secret. If his theory was right, Flayn and probably Seteth had better than average hearing anyways.

Finally he stopped vomiting. He shook in Hilda’s grip, his eyes tracing the river of silver that ran down the hill. Probably about two buckets worth. He still didn’t understand where it came from— no way that much could ever fit in his shrunken stomach. At least he only used his crest once today.

Lorenz passed him a grey handkerchief to wipe his mouth with. They helped him sit back, though Claude couldn’t bring himself to meet the eyes of the others. He raised his eyes to the night sky, gazing at the stars instead.

“Want me to carry you to bed?” Hilda whispered in his ear, though he’s sure everyone heard her.

“Nah. Just prop me up by the log.”

“Your back will kill you in the morning, you know.”

Claude gave a half shrug. “Eh. I’ll deal. ‘Sides, who knows what’s taken up residence ‘n my room. Migh’ as well stay here.”

She did as he asked her, setting his back against one of the logs being used as a bench. She positioned his knees tucked into his chest, and he felt a warmth in his chest that Hilda knew exactly how he wanted to sit. He tended to get a bit numb after these sessions nowadays. Made it hard to move.

He lulled his head on the log behind him, staring into the fire. “Sorry to kill the mood, everyone.”

“You haven’t passed out, so that’s good, right? Has it been getting better?” Ignatz asked. “That was less than you had at Remire.”

He didn’t look, but he was sure the more in-the-know members of the group shared a grimace. He’d been in regular correspondence with Lysithea and Linhardt, they knew roughly how bad it was. And he knew Hilda kept Marianne updated by asking for medical advice.

“I won’t lie. This what it looks like at it’s best. Only used my crest once today.”

“Your crest?” Seteth finally spoke up. “You think this is caused— by your crest?”

“Mmhmm.”

Seteth shook his head. “That isn’t possible. You’re mistaken.”

Claude let the outcries of his former-classmates play out. “What makes you so certain, Seteth?” Claude asked. He hadn’t forgotten that Flayn had thought Seteth might know more about his condition. “It only happens after I use my crest. Pretty hard to assume it’s anything else.”

“Crests don’t—” Seteth paused, taking a moment to think over his words. “Crests are a blessing from the Goddess. There are many things they do and many things they don’t. They don’t do this.” He stood and ambled over to the bile, kneeling to look closer. “This… what  _ is _ this?”

“We have no idea— that’s the problem.” Linhardt sighed. “Our current running theory is that it’s some sort of runoff healing waste product. Claude’s crest is an enigma— he’s single handedly destroyed so many laws of crests that we thought absolute.”

“That’s me— just can’t stand to follow any rules,” Claude mumbled to himself.

Seteth stared down at the stream. He brought his hand down low to hover above the substance, his face pinching into a frown. 

Abruptly Seteth stood. He gave Claude a look— Claude was too tired to try and decipher whatever it meant. “I stand by my judgment— whatever this is isn’t caused by your crest. Or at least, not only your crest. This is some sort of… abomination.”

Shouts rose up at Seteth. Claude snickered. “Calm down, it’s not the first time I’ve been called that.”

“What? Who called you that? I’ll pay them a little ‘visit’ for you…” Hilda menaced.

Claude winced, realizing his words were looser than he preferred. “Never mind that. I’m more curious about what Seteth thinks is so abominable about me.”

“I apologize, I did not choose my words wisely. There is something wrong with this. A perversion. It’s unnatural. ”

“Crests aren’t really ‘natural’ in the first place,” Claude mumbled into the log. His eyelids were sliding shut against his will. He shivered, missing the painful heat from his crest already. The nearby fire gave him some warmth, but he still felt cold. What he really wanted was Failnaught. The bow always seemed to settle him. He had no doubt that would get some worried looks from the others, though.

Something warm was thrown over him. He forced his eyes to focus on the orange.

“You look cold, so here. Take my jacket,” Leonie said, wrapping her jacket around him.

“Oh, here, I’m plenty warm— take my cloak too,” Ignatz added green to Leonie’s orange, laying the cloak over his front.

Something warm and big settled next to him. “I’ll share some body heat! That’ll keep you warm,” Raphael added.

Hilda wordlessly tucked herself into his other side.

“Thanks, everyone,” Claude murmured, a genuine smile on his face as he slipped into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter for one reason: how much to reveal.
> 
> There's a very specific thing in this chapter that will... not exactly explain things, but get the ball rolling in a particular direction. I'm curious if anyone catches it... ;)
> 
> Leonie mentions Orion's Shield because, at least in some of the FE games, the constellations (at least somewhat) lineup with our own. In, uh, one of Marth's games (I don't remember which one whoops) and also in Echoes you collect constellation things that are based off the zodiac constellations.


	13. Silver Hands

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“AAAAH! GHOST!”

It was only his battlefield instincts that saved him as he hit the floor. There was a quiet  _ whoosh _ above his head and then a louder thunk.

“Yeesh, it was a simple question… no need to skewer me.” He eyed the knife now stuck in the wall. “If I  _ was _ a ghost, would a knife really have done anything?”

Lysithea clutched at her chest, her eyes wide and face pale. “C-Claude? Is th-that you?”

“Claude? No… ‘Tis I, the spoooooky cake ghosts, oooOOOooo…” he waggled his fingers at her.

Her look of fear immediately shifted into rage. “CLAUDE! Argh, I am no child! And here I thought you might have matured over the course of five years! You’re lucky I didn’t disintegrate you.”

“If you disintegrate me, that means  _ you _ become the next duke of Riegan you know. I don’t make the rules, that’s just how it works. ‘He who slayeth the lord, doth becometh the lord.’ Or she, I guess.” He held out his arms. “Feel free to blast me, I’m sick of dealing with stuffy nobles.” His grin and tone was light and teasing. 

Lysithea’s face twisted. “Dealing with stuffy nobles is exactly what you deserve. Find someone else to put you out of your misery. It doesn’t even work like that. Why are you even here?”

“Why does anyone sneak into the kitchen at two in the morning? I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.” Claude picked himself off the ground, brushing some dust from his clothes. He wasn’t actually hungry, but he needed some air. The walk to the kitchen under the clear starlit sky had already done wonders for his mood, and if he ate something now Hilda might not yell at him in the morning for skipping dinner.

Lysithea pouted at him. At times like these with her face puffed up and cake frosting smeared everywhere, it was hard to remember that five whole years had passed since their academy days.

“You’ve got a little something, ah,” he gestured to his entire face, “everywhere.” Her pout turned into mortification as her face turned bright red. Her eyes darted down to her cake-covered hands. “Wow, were you just shoveling cake down by the fistful?”

“N-no! Absolutely not!” She jabbed a frosting-covered finger at him before realizing the evidence of his statement coated said appendage. She whirled and turned her back to him, furiously wiping at her face with a handkerchief.

“It’s fine if you were, you know,” he commented as he ambled over to the cupboard. Technically no one was supposed to eat out of the kitchen past dining hall hours, but he was Duke Riegan of the Alliance. If his position didn’t allow him to wander about without having to skulk around like a student, what was the point? “It’s good to see you finally out of the library. Have you left at all in the past two weeks?”

She scoffed. “Of course I have. I’ve just been busy. You have no room to talk. This must be the first time you’ve left the cardinal’s room.”

“You wouldn’t know. You’ve been in the library, after all.” He eyed the contents of the cupboard. There was some bread, some nuts, and some dried fruit. He shut the door, trying to remember where Teach kept their supplies.

There was a moment of silence (or rather, a moment where he heard Lysithea take a small bite of cake while his back was to her). “I should be going.”

“Going to bed? Because that’s the only place you should be going right now.” Claude pulled open another cabinet. “Bingo.” Teach’s stash. Dried fish, jerky, and a stash of vegetables and herbs peeked out at him.

“Of course not. I have too much work to do.”

Claude paused in his rummaging, turning back to Lysithea. Her face and hands were (mostly) clean of cake. There was a furrow along her brow, and suddenly it struck him that Lysithea was twenty.  _ Twenty. _ She wasn’t the same fifteen year old that he used to tease. He felt both too young and too old at the realization.

She flinched as he met her eyes, immediately looking away. She bit at her lip, worming it between her teeth.

“You look like you’re about to fall over from exhaustion. Whatever you’re looking into will be there when you come back.”

She shook her head, still not meeting his eyes. “That’s what the cake was for. I have plenty of energy.” She looked exhausted.

“Have you eaten anything  _ but _ cake?”

She turned and began to walk towards the kitchen door.

“Ah-ah-ah! I don’t think so!” He jolted towards her, his sudden speed allowing him to make it to the door before she did. He leaned up against it and smirked. “Cake alone is no meal. When was the last time you ate anything green?”

“Move aside Claude. I’m  _ busy.” _

“Nah.” He put his hands behind his neck. “Don’t feel like moving.”

“You immature—” she cut herself off, her blazing glare jolting to look away from him. “Just— just let me leave.” Her shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tight around herself.

His easy grin fell. Still, he kept his tone light. “Eat some real food and you’re free to go.”

She was silent. It was an odd reminder that five years really had passed. He knew they had— he’d been agonizingly aware considering he’d been a rather busy duke the majority of them. But coming back to the monastery it felt like his school years had been only a few months ago. The Golden Deer had slotted back together like no time had passed, but there were moments like these on occasion. Moments where his old dynamic didn’t hold up with the present.

“You’re insufferable,” she whispered, still not looking at him as she turned around to shuffle through Teach’s food stores. “Don’t you have better things to do?” She nearly tripped, fumbling her way over to where Claude had just been.  _ She must be exhausted the way she’s stumbling… _

He slumped against the door, falling into a seated position and crossing his legs. “Not really. Everyone else is asleep. ‘Cept you, though you  _ should _ be.”

She huffed, gathering a few things into her arms and returning to his side. “If I have to eat, so do you.” She stood over him, her face hesitant. Very slowly, she nudged him with her foot.

He raised an eyebrow.

She didn’t elaborate, instead sighing as relief washed over her face. She plopped beside him, biting into a Morfis plum and glaring down at the selection of carrots, elk jerky, and bread. Nothing green, but he was willing to accept the carrots as good enough. He felt a little warm to note that she got enough for him too. “If everyone else is asleep, maybe you should take your own advice before forcing it on others.”

“Eh, it’s not that simple for me anymore.” He snagged a bit of jerky to chew on. Teach always made the best jerky, second only to Leonie’s. “Any reason you kicked me?”

“It was a nudge. If you think that’s a kick, you’re far more delicate than I assumed. And what do you mean ‘not that simple’? Have you developed insomnia or something of the like?”

Claude shrugged. “Or something. I’ll tell you if you tell me why you won’t look me in the eye.”

She tensed. “Don’t be stupid. I look you in the eye all the time.”

“Tonight you won’t.”

She munched on the plum, finishing it. “It doesn’t matter. It’s stupid,” she mumbled to the floor.

“You’re the least stupid person I know. C’moooon, I promise I won’t tell anyone! I can keep a secret very well.” He nudged her with his elbow, finally managed to catch her eye and winking.

She bit into a carrot, leaning into his side. He wondered if she meant to do that or not. A moment later and she faced him, her eyes hesitant. She reached up with her free hand and rested her hand on his cheek.

_ Aw, shit. _ It all fell into place in his mind. Refusing to make eye contact. Cutting herself off and stuttering. The borderline nervous lilt to her voice. Leaning into his side, the gentle touch.  _ Shit, _ she’s not the same young girl that she used to be. “Lysithea, I’m flattered, but while I consider you a great friend I’m afraid I’m not looking for any romantic rela—”

The gentle hand on his face was replaced with a small slap. “Idiot! I’m not interested in you! Only a fool would be!”

Her tone was annoyed but not hurt.  _ Phew, _ he was glad he misread that one. She was like a little sister to him. “Why, I’ll have you know plenty of people would be ecstatic to have my hand!”

She rolled her eyes. “You sound like Lorenz.”

He shuddered, earning a small snicker from Lysithea. “Gross, yuck, do  _ not _ compare me to him.  _ Uurgh. _ Now I feel slimy.”

He realized Lysithea was still leaning into him, more than before. Her head rested on his shoulder even as she munched on food. “I wasn’t sure if you were real,” she mumbled.

“Huh?”

She hunched her shoulders. “I’ll only tell you if you  _ promise  _ you don’t make fun of me. Got it? Don’t forget I can disintegrate you with a snap of my fingers.”

“Very well. I,  _ Claude von Riegan,  _ promise not to make fun of  _ Lysithea von Ordelia _ over the next statement she doth speak. Satisfied?”

She snorted before falling silent, staring down at her hands. “In the dark your eyes are… eerie. Two green wisps floating around. I know you aren’t a ghost— because ghosts don’t exist, duh— but I still…”

“Ah.” His glowing eyes. He realized that for her, the kitchen must be almost pitch dark. No wonder she had been stumbling around earlier. Even worse, she probably couldn’t see his facial expressions like he could see hers. Only his eyes. “Right. I forget about that sometimes.” Only since coming to Garreg Mach. He used to be incredibly conscious of his eyes in the dark, but now that everyone knew, he kept forgetting.

“I was afraid— no, I wasn’t afraid, just worried— that if I touched you, I might go through you. Or that your skin would be cold like a corpse, or…”

He grasped her hand in his own gloved one, resting it back on his cheek. “Warm enough for you?”

She huffed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were feverish. You’re very bony though.”

“Ding ding ding, you now know why Hilda yells at me to eat.”

“I know in your letters you mentioned this, but seeing it up close…”

Her hand fell back to her lap, but she didn’t pull away from his side. He belatedly realized she was shivering a little. It was probably a cold night— he didn’t really feel chills anymore. He unclipped his cape and wrapped it around her.

His chivalrous act earned him a glare. “Don’t. Coddle. Me.”

He smirked. “I can take it back if you prefer…”

Her glare only intensified, pulling the cape tighter around herself. “Shut up. It’s your turn. Your sleeping issue?”

“I actually forgot that you didn’t know. I don’t sleep much anymore unless I use my crest. I usually go for a week at a time. I get much more work done, but it gets a little lonely some nights.” He threw an over dramatic hand over his forehead. “But hark, on this very night I was saved by your presence!” 

“I’m leaving you as soon as I finish this food.” She sent him a pointed look.

“I see how little I mean to you!” He shrugged. “Eh, I might follow you to the library. I need to look up a couple of things…”

“I suppose staying awake must be handy. Sleeping eats up so much time. I’m envious.”

“It’s a mixed blessing. But it does give me an edge over everyone else, so I’m grateful for that.”

“Claude…” Lysithea trailed off. Looking down, he realized her eyelids were fighting to stay open. She squeezed his sleeve, squeezed down on padding. “Do you ever worry you won’t have enough time?”

“No.” He didn’t worry he wouldn’t have enough time because he  _ knew _ he wouldn’t have enough time. His dream would take decades, decades he no longer had. “Worrying wastes time, wouldn't you agree?”

“Yeah. It’s silly to worry about…” Something about her tone struck Claude as unbearably sad.

“Do you worry you won’t have enough time?”

“Every day.”

He swallowed. Lysithea was always working like she was running out of time, like any day could be her last. “Hey, have more faith in me ‘n Teach. We won’t let you fall in battle.”

“Don’t play dumb. You do it all the time, but it doesn’t suit you. You know that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

“…Ah.” He’d had his guesses and theories, but… “You dying too?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah.” Sometimes, he really hated being right. “Crests really suck.”

“Yeah.”

“How long do you have?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll die very young. Five years at best, probably less. You?”

“Don’t know. I’ll make it to the end of the war.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Just the two of them, alone at night. Maybe he could afford to drop his mask. Just once. He was tired of pretending. “You’ve probably been dealing with this ticking clock for most of your life, huh?”

“Since I was seven.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of death? A little, I guess.”

“Only a little? Guess I really am a coward then.”

“I’m terrified. It’ll happen no matter what, and I tell myself that I shouldn’t be afraid. I still am. You?”

He wanted to paste on a smile and laugh it off. Wanted to up and leave, walk away. He wanted to run. He was tired of running. “Scared shitless,” he whispered into her hair. “Don’t tell anyone, alright? I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

Lysithea just hugged him tighter.

Not even a minute passed and her breathing leveled out. He carefully picked her up and carried her to her room. He paused before he entered the old dorms, staring up at the sky. He gave a silent prayer to the stars that her dreams would be kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Claude & Lysithea. Claude's just *such* a bratty older brother to her. They're adorable.
> 
> Shorter chapter this go around, but next chapter will make up for it ;) Hope y'all are ready, next chapter's gonna be an important one


	14. Silver Bones

Ailell. Of all the places to be ambushed.

Claude spared a thought for Judith. He knew she would be fine, but for the sake of not getting yelled at, he hoped she hadn’t been intercepted.

Failnaught hummed in his grip as he shot off another volley of arrows. The Knights of House Rowe were relentless. He tugged at his wyvern’s reins as he dodged out of the way of a returning stream of arrows. His wyvern gave a whine as one of the arrows clipped her wing. She was still able to fly, but if the arrows kept up she wouldn’t be for long.

Claude brought them to the ground, leaping from his wyvern’s back before she even landed. Midair he shot directly down and took out an unsuspecting knight. He landed with a roll, grunting as he came into contact with the sharp volcanic rock that made up the ground. Whirling he let Failnaught guide him, the twitches of excitement telling him exactly where to aim before he even saw his enemy.

The world bloomed into color as his crest lit up behind him. He set his arrow free, satisfaction curling in his belly as the arrow made contact. Heat caressed the scrapes along his body as they healed. He let out a sigh as his pent up jitters faded with the use of his crest. He waved away his wyvern, commanding her to safety off the battlefield. 

His attention was caught by Flayn and Ignatz, the two back to back across a river of lava from Claude. The two were surrounded by enemy knights, separated from the rest of the Deer.

Claude wasted no time in readying Failnaught. He was too far away for his usual shot to land, but Failnaught was no usual bow.

“Let’s make this one count, ‘kay?” He whispered. Failnaught pulsed in agreement.

He nocked the arrow and pointed his bow towards the heavens. Silver light crackled at the arrow’s tip. With a shout he loosed the arrow from Failnaught. The silver streak glimmered in the sky for a moment just the same as a star might. Then it fell. _Fallen Star,_ he called the technique.

The silver bolt landed true, spearing through one of the knights. The flash of light was enough to distract the other knights, giving Flayn and Ignatz more than enough time to retaliate.

He knew they would be fine, but he wasted a moment to be sure. Flayn’s faith magic was impressive as always, smiting her enemies. Ignatz’s bow skills were superb as well— his swordhand no slouch either.

He threw the two of them a wave. They returned his wave, Flayn’s cheerful and Ignatz’s grateful.

The sudden pain in his abdomen came as a surprise.

He grunted, a gurgle passing from his lips. His eyes went wide as he coughed up a dribble of blood. In his moment of being caught off guard, he idly remembered how he had lectured his classmates five years ago about the foolishness of losing focus on one’s own battle. He saw Flayn’s face fall into confusion. It was Ignatz who realized what happened, his face twisting into horror.

The blade in his stomach shifted and pushed deeper, driving a choked gasp from him. He felt a hand grip his shoulder to use as leverage. He could faintly feel the tip of the blade exit out from his stomach. The sharp metal shifted inside of him, solidly slotting into place. His body felt numb. His knees were weak.

He knew better than to leave his back open, but here he was: sword in his gut.

It was Failnaught that acted, not him. Absently, without his thought, his hands nocked an arrow. He twisted his head to look at the assassin standing behind him. The man smirked. Claude stared wide-eyed and gaping, only tangentially aware of his arms shifting into position.

Claude’s torso shifted, and he was given the honor of watching the man’s smirk turn into surprise. Silver light overtook the red tones of Ailell as his crest bloomed into existence. Failnaught’s arrow burrowed into the man’s throat, point-blank.

Claude choked in gasps of smokey air, the fire of his crest roaring through him. The world around him exploded into blinding color, the air humming around him. His stomach tinged with invisible sparks. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground, grimacing at his own stupidity.

His eyes darted to nearby movement. A cluster of nearby enemy knights were gaping at him. Claude took another breath— he felt _alive._ He smiled. He raised his bow, methodically nocking an arrow.

One of the knights broke into a scream, their rank falling apart as they stumbled away from him. Claude took a step forward, the knights taking two back. _A bit of an overreaction._ Then again, seeing an enemy be impaled and walk it off was probably terrifying. 

If the opportunity presented itself… “So, anyone willing to surrender? Throw down your weapons, we don’t have to fight.” A clatter of metal met his proposal, the knights desperate to separate themselves from their weapons. Claude hid his surprise with a smirk. “Good choice. Now run along— and if any of you change your mind about surrender, we’ll be having some unpleasant words.”

The knights scattered into a run.

Claude’s eyes caught on another cluster of Rowe soldiers in the distance. The battle still raged, there was no time for respite. His body hummed with energy.

Claude loosed an arrow into the back of one soldier, then two, then three.

He took a step forward. Then another. He shot another arrow, felling man after man. He felt _alive_ like never before. The group took notice of him, bristling their weapons. Some of them balked, taking a step back. Unlike the knights that surrendered though, this group charged him. 

He reached for more arrows only to find his quiver empty. He hung Failnaught over his neck and one shoulder, letting the bow rest over his chest. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat. It made a strange metallic _clunk_ as he holstered it, tugging oddly at his stomach, but he had no time to parse the feeling. He drew his sword and charged the remaining knights.

There was no time in a fight for pity— but if there had been time, Claude would be feeling it for the men that fell before him. All death was regrettable— even when he felt so _right_ and in his element.

He ducked under blades and twisted around blasts of magic. His blood sung with every swing of his sword, Failnaught crooning sweet whispers alongside it all. It was all a dance to him as he cut down life after life. His world was a mix of red and silver light. Failnaught murmured warnings of attacks he couldn’t see— not with words, but rather through a foreign instinct that he felt down to his bones.

He moved from group of enemy to group of enemy, a one-man army. He finally broke through enemy lines to find himself face to face with some of the Deer— and General Gwendal himself.

The fight he stumbled into was vicious. Hilda and Teach were up front, Leonie and Lorenz in the middle, Marianne and Linhardt providing support from the back. No one was free of blood. The general had swarms of soldiers around him. Claude’s former-classmates were forced into a choke point, but so too were the enemies. The battle was slow, numbers and endurance favored Gwendal.

The battle needed a little something to spice it up. Claude was happy to be that spice.

He kicked at a dead archer’s quiver, swiping a stash of arrows for his own. Claude wasted no time dispatching side troops of the old general. He nocked arrows three at a time, trusting his own skills and Failnaught’s aim to land every shot. His rain of arrows quickly drew the battle’s attention. A section of soldiers broke off to deal with him. Holstering Failnaught again, he bared his teeth and his blade.

He crashed into the enemy’s flank. “What in the Goddess’ name—!” He heard the old general shout.

Claude held his sword ready, soldiers circling him. He was heavily outnumbered, but he didn’t doubt his skills. Neither did the enemy soldiers, judging by the way they were slowly backing further and further away from him. He raised his voice to project as far as possible. “Lay down your arms and surrender, and you will be spared!”

“Hold your steel, men! Draw back!” Gwendal shouted.

The circle of soldiers didn’t waste a moment in following his order, though some threw down their weapons prematurely. Gwendal came riding between the parting men, lance in hand but not pointed towards Claude.

“Tell me: are you a messenger from the Goddess, come to judge me?”

Claude fought to keep the incredulous look off his face. “Hah, that’s a new one. If I say yes, will you surrender? We may be at war, but I find pointless bloodshed to be pointless. There’s no need for us to hack away at each other.”

The old general looked Claude up and down. “Well then, Messenger of the Goddess— I’ve come to Ailell today to find my honorable death.” Gwendal bore his lance ready. “Judge me.”

Claude cursed. _Of course the old man had a death wish…_ There was no more time to think as a lance going at the speed of horse nearly skewered him. He leapt to the side and curled into a roll, grunting as something tugged at his stomach, giving resistance as he rolled along the ground. His smooth roll twisted into something less elegant as he fought to get his footing back under him. He had no time to consider the feeling further as Gwendal wasted no time and went for a second strike.

Claude blocked the lance with his sword, his arms remaining steady even in the force of the blow. His blood hummed and Claude lashed out. 

He struck at the horse, slashing at an unprotected section of the legs. The horse went down, Gwendal throwing himself from the beast. Age hadn’t dulled the man— or if it had, Claude was terrified to imagine a young Gwendal— as the general used his momentum to drive his spear towards Claude.

Claude parried the blow. Gwendal whirled his weapon, striking Claude’s blade with the shaft of the lance. Claude’s swordhand was knocked to the side, leaving him open. He saw Gwendal’s next blow coming but could do nothing to stop it.

_Not nothing…_

The lance was brought up in a wide arc and made to swing horizontally. Claude was already backing up, but Gwendal was stepping forward just as far. No time to duck. His sword was on the wrong side to parry.

Gwendal was about to behead him.

With a shout, Claude brought his arm up to block the lance. _One chance to do this right._ He wasn’t blocking a sword— a lance was a long weapon. With Gwendal’s momentum, he had no doubt the lance could cut through the bone of his arm and still behead him. But if he could use his arm to deflect the blow enough to miss his neck, he might survive.

His last thought was that— if he survived this— he’d miss using a bow. He’d also miss his arm.

A _clang_ shattered through the air. The clang sounded far more like metal than Claude expected his bone to sound like. Less painful too. Gwendal’s lance was thrown to the side. Claude recognized the curling twist of Teach’s sword. 

“Claude!” someone yelled behind him. An arrow whizzed over his shoulder and sunk between Gwendal’s armor. 

Claude took no further prodding, seizing his chance. He ran the general through.

The light faded from General Gwendal’s eyes, the man slumping to the ground. The constant warmth rushing through Claude spiked, easing his wounds from the fight. 

With a grunt, Claude made to retrieve his sword from the man’s corpse. As he tugged, his silver sword made an unwelcome snapping sound. Pulling back only the hilt, Claude resigned himself to find a sword from one of the corpses strewn about to use instead. His sword had been brand new at the start of the battle…

Surveying the battlefield, he realized it was over. The few living knights that remained had dropped their weapons at the death of their general.

Teach and Hilda raced over to him. “Claude— what the hell was all that?” Hilda panted. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Thanks for the save Teach— I’ll admit, I got a bit in over my head there.”

“Boy!” came Judith’s holler. She jogged up to them. “I’ll be damned boy, but whatever scheme you pulled off worked like a charm. I’d say we’re lucky to have made it out alive, but you intimidated half the enemies into surrendering!”

Claude was thrown off by her words. “Uh— my scheme? Of course my scheme worked.” He had no idea what scheme she was referring to. “And stop calling me ‘boy’ in front of everyone.”

Judith huffed a laugh. She made a gesture at him. “Whatever this light-up trick is has half the army convinced you’re a demon sent to kill them all, the other half convinced you’re divine judgment.”

“… Light-up trick?” Claude wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. 

“Your crest is bright,” Teach said, as though that explained anything. They had a weirdly concerned look on their usually stoic face. “Why is your crest still active?”

Claude blinked. He swiveled around and, sure enough, his crest hung in the air behind his shoulders. Suddenly the silver lighting that clashed with the reds and oranges of Ailell was put into perspective. “Huh…”

Hilda shrieked, startling him. He whipped around, hands clutching at Failnaught even though the bow was still around his shoulder. Finding no enemies, he looked back at Hilda. Hilda’s hand was outstretched, pointed at his torso.

He looked down. He noticed the shining gleam of metal poking through his thick tunic. “Ooooh yeah…” he mumbled, remembering the assassin that had run him through earlier. He still had a sword in his gut. “Forgot about that.” He tutted, annoyed at the red staining his clothes. The blade pierced through the top of his sash too. “Aw, not my sash… mom’s gonna kill me.”

He looked up to see three pairs of wide eyes. Hilda and Judith looked very pale all of the sudden. In fact, Claude had never seen Judith look… scared? 

_Stars,_ Judith looked _scared._

“MARIANNE!” Hilda threw back her head and screamed. “LINHARDT! LYSITHEA, FLAYN! SOMEONE HELP!” 

“Whoa calm down, no need to get hysterical on me here!”

Hilda grabbed at her hair and tugged. _Shit,_ she was crying.

Teach gripped his shoulder tightly, their wide eyes searching his. “You aren’t in pain.” It wasn’t a question.

“No— I’m fine! Honestly I forgot about it…”

“You— you forgot about being,” Judith paused, swallowing thickly. “You forgot that you were impaled with a sword.”

Claude rubbed his neck, feeling sheepish in the way only Judith ever managed to make him feel. “I was a little busy?”

“You forgot about being _mortally wounded.”_

“Psh, it’ll take more than this to kill me. I’ve got too much to do before I die.”

Marianne, Flayn, and Ignatz rushed over to them.

“What’s wrong?” Marianne asked, her eyes glued to just above Claude’s shoulder. Probably eyeing his still-active crest.

Flayn didn’t waste any time with questions, rushing up to examine the wound.

“You really scared us earlier,” Ignatz said. He gave a weak chuckle. “We really thought you were done for. Another side effect of your crest?”

“Seems so.” Claude looked away, feeling a prickle of guilt. The memory of true horror on Ignatz’s face was sure to feature in his nightmares for nights to come. Thank the Stars Failnaught prevented nightmares. “Sorry you guys saw that.”

Flayn ushered him into a seated position, fussing over the wound.

Teach slumped beside him like a puppet with cut strings. “I saw you fighting— I didn’t know you were injured. I’m sorry. I should have noticed.”

“You always apologize for the oddest things, Teach. It’s my own fault— got distracted.”

Teach didn’t argue with him, but they still looked guilty.

“C’mon Teach. This isn’t the first time someone’s had some **_sword_** of a problem with me. They got their **_point_** across.”

“Claude. No.”

They didn’t look guilty anymore, so Claude took it as a win.

“I’d like an explanation,” Judith said. She was still pale. “I’m glad you’re still kicking— Goddess only knows what I’d tell your mother if you died. But that looks pretty fatal to me.”

Claude gave an exaggerated shrug, ignoring Flayn’s reprimand about moving. “I’ve finally found something I’m not innately talented at: alas, I have a deep failing in the ability to die.”

The look Judith gave him was probably more deadly than the sword still in his gut.

He coughed, breaking eye contact. “My crest of Riegan works really, really well and no one knows why.”

“We’ll have to pull this out,” Flayn commented, saving him from Judith’s stare.

“But faith magic doesn’t work. I’m not sure a vulnerary or concoction will be enough to heal him,” Marianne argued.

“We can’t just leave this in him,” Flayn countered.

“Well, no. You’re right. But maybe—”

Claude let the healers debate on what to do with him. He glanced down at the tip of the blade poking out of his stomach. Paying attention now, he could feel it sitting inside of him. It didn’t hurt, it was just… there. Very surreal.

He _did_ need a replacement for the sword he broke… 

He fumbled a hand around his back. He quickly found the hilt of the blade, sticking out just a bit to the left of his spine. He thumbed the hilt. It was strange to think of the sword as something that should have killed him. He mentally ticked his death counter up to seven.

He probably should feel more freaked out about the whole thing. There was a _sword_ stuck _inside_ of him. He wasn’t sure why it didn’t bother him. Was it from the adrenaline? The thrum of his crest still churning in his veins? Or was he just growing desensitized to the idea of death?

Maybe he just knew he was already a dead man walking. He was racing against the clock already— he wasn’t long for the world. He’d known that for five years.

Seeing that Hilda, Ignatz, and Judith had been drawn into the healer’s discussion about what to do with him, he wiggled the hilt a bit. Teach raised an eyebrow but did nothing to stop him. Maybe he was just projecting, but their eyes seemed to say _‘I trust you to not be stupid enough to kill yourself.’_ Some misplaced faith on Teach’s part.

He gave a tug on the hilt, grimacing as the blade’s sharp edge jigged through his insides. It was difficult to pull it straight out, considering he was tugging at his back. He slowly eased the weapon out of him.

Teach passed a vulnerary to him, but he shook his head. Now that there was nothing in the way, he could feel his insides healing. More accurately, he could feel something wriggling inside of him, and he had to assume that meant his organs were repairing themselves. Hopefully. On his list of the most uncomfortable things, it had to be in the top ten.

He decided to take his mind off of the sensation by examining his new sword.

It was a Wo Dao. _Score!_ He’d had his eye on one at the market for weeks, but as a _responsible_ leader he’d been resigned to budgeting like a boring old man, _ugh._ Now he got one free of charge though. Almost made getting stabbed worth it.

The wriggling in his stomach eased into tingles. The tingles faded too, leaving him with a presumably fully healed body. The churning in his blood finally began to slow. He felt the grip of his crest dissolve, with it some of his gained vitality. His body relaxed, strung tension finally leaving him. Back down to baseline; he wasn’t looking forward to the fallout later.

The light of his crest finally winked out, though he was sure his eyes still glowed.

“Claude!” Ignatz shouted, having turned when he noticed the light fade. His shout earned Claude the attention of all the assembled people.

“Yes?” He did his best to not look sheepish.

Ignatz sputtered. Followed by shouts from everyone else as they realized what he had done.

Claude tugged at the ripped fabric and wiped away at the blood. “It’s already healed up, you can check for yourself.”

Marianne and Flayn _did_ check for themselves.

“Claude, have I ever told you how stupid you are? Because you’re the biggest idiot I know,” Hilda berated him.

Claude pouted. “Leonie would agree with me. Free sword, only used once! It’s nearly in mint condition!”

He (begrudgingly) let the others fuss over him for a bit.

Judith was the worst. He knew how to handle an annoyed Judith. He knew how to handle an angry Judith. But the woman he looked at was unrecognizable. She ran a hand over his cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “I know you said you were low on supplies, but you look like you haven’t eaten in weeks, boy.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise.” It was a lot worse than it looked, but he wasn’t about to say that. “It’s just the lighting, accentuates my lovely cheekbones. That’s all.” That and the usual makeup he covered his face with would have melted off in a heartbeat, so he hadn’t bothered.

“You look on death’s door. And not just because of the gut wound you healed. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your transformation into a scarecrow over the past few years. It’s been less than half a year since I last saw you, and you look so much…” she paused, her face twisting into something pained. She didn’t finish her sentence.

Everyone was rounded up. Judith invited herself into his army, and the supply train began their march for Garreg Mach. Despite the skirmish, the Ailell mission was a success. 

After Marianne healed his mount up to peak shape, he and Hilda rode back to the monastery ahead of the pack. Officially it was to make preparations for the new forces that Judith sprang on them. In truth he was going somewhere safe to vomit. Hilda came with him as a precaution— his crest acted odder than usual during the fight. No one wanted to take the chance that Claude might pass out and fall off his Wyvern.

The ride was tense. Hilda was angry at him.

But she still held his hair back when he spent the next few hours vomiting into a wash basin.

He slept for the next three days straight.

* * *

  
  


A few days later Claude stumbled upon Ignatz while he was painting.

“Oh-ho, now that’s a fierce looking painting,” Claude commented, snickering as Ignatz jumped.

“Claude! Don’t sneak up on me like that, I nearly ruined my painting.” Ignatz froze, then tried to cover his art with his body. “Ah! It’s— it’s not finished yet, you can’t look!”

“C’mon Ignatz, it looked pretty close to being done to me. Just gimme a sneak peak— your art’s always a treat.”

Claude was rewarded as Ignatz gave a faint blush. “Um, thanks, but you’re giving me too much credit. I’m not that good…” In his bashful mumbles, Ignatz stopped guarding his painting so closely.

On first glance the painting was a wash of black, gray, red, silver, and a splash of green in the center. The setting of Ailell was impossible to miss. A figure stood amidst the ash and smoke. They held a bloody blade clutched in one hand, the other hand idly stretched out to a fallen man, palm open and ready to help. Over the figure’s heart was a glowing silver circle, and behind the figure’s head was a doubled silver halo. The halo was broken into two crescents instead of a full circle. At the warrior’s feet lay bodies and blood. In the background there were running soldiers, their eyes closed and hands clasped in prayer, heads raised to the heavens as though thanking an unseen presence. 

The warrior’s features were obscured by ash. Faintly Claude could make out the impression of teeth formed into an easygoing smile. It was the twin green blots of color that shone through the ash as though there was no ash at all. They stood out against the rest of the piece, eyes piercing and judging. They stared out of the painting, as if the layers of paint were alive and staring back at Claude. The eyes almost seemed to follow him. The green eyes blazed like flames, trailing wisps of light upwards. They seemed to glow even though Claude knew it was just a painting. _Credit to Ignatz’s skill._

Claude whistled. “Wow, that gives me chills. That’s Ailell, right?”

Ignatz sighed and nodded. He gave Claude a guilty look. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t get the image out of my head. You… don’t mind?”

“Ignatz, I’ve told you before— no one thinks pursuing your passion for painting is a problem. Of course I don’t mind.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. That’s not what I meant, though.”

Claude frowned. He watched Ignatz fidget, refusing to make eye contact. “Why are you worried I’ll mind?”

“It’s just a personal project, I don’t plan to show it to anyone else. I can get rid of it, if you want. Gah, I never should have painted it in the first place—”

“Not to interrupt your ramble, but you didn’t answer my question.”

Ignatz looked down at his hands. “… It’s you.”

“What’s me? What did I do?” Claude tried to think of anything he did to slight Ignatz. He tried to remember anytime he might have said something that could have possibly hurt Ignatz confidence in painting. Which… okay, so maybe there were multiple instances where someone with low self confidence might have taken his words the wrong way…

“The painting,” Ignatz interrupted Claude’s thoughts, gesturing at the figure. “It’s you.”

“Wait, that’s… me?”

Claude looked at the painting again. Suddenly it all leapt out at him: the double halo wasn’t a halo at all— it was the crest of Riegan, artistically rendered at the perfect angle to be behind his head. The shimmering silver heart was where Failnaught’s creststone rested during the battle. Looking closer, he realized the figure obscured by Ailell ash was wearing yellow, with a streak of red down their stomach. In their hand wasn’t clutched just any sword— it was a Wo Dao.

The eyes though. He _knew_ his eyes glowed, he’d known that for a long time now. He heard Hilda when she told him that his eyes had _blazed_ at Ailell. But staring at an artist’s rendition of his eyes, staring into two beacons that stole the attention of the entire piece? Two verdant eyes that Ignatz somehow imbued with judgement and conviction?

“Oh.” Claude… didn’t know what to say. He was genuinely speechless. 

Ignatz fidgeted while Claude silently took in the painting again.

“Did I really look like that?”

“N-not exactly. I mean, mostly. Okay, yes, that’s what you looked like. Like a being pulled straight out of legend: a champion of the Goddess, haloed in incandescent light. U-um, I mean, I made sure to keep a lot of your details out of the picture— that’s why there’s ash everywhere.”

“Huh.”

Claude wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

* * *

  
  
  


It was a week after Ailell that he heard the new nicknames.

The Kingdom soldiers he spared weren’t being quiet about their tales of him. As rumors always do, the tales of his accomplishments were overblown and exaggerated.

_The Undying,_ some called him. 

_‘They stabbed him with spears over and over, but he just laughed and got back up! He was stuck so full of arrows that every movement he made clanged as the arrowheads hit each other beneath his skin. He was more pincushion than man!’_

_‘The Gray Lion beheaded him, but Claude the Undying picked his head off the ground and planted it back on his neck! He never even stopped smiling!’_

_‘He was a whirlwind of death— he fought thirty men all at once and came out without a single scratch!’_ Alright, that one was mostly true.

It was a bit ironic that his old moniker ended up following him to Fódlan.

Some called him _the Verdant-eyed Demon._

_‘A demon with an insatiable thirst for blood and trickery. Made a pact with evil creatures for his abilities. How else can his tactics be explained? He’s always five steps ahead of everyone else.’_

_‘I hear he escaped from a prison made by the Goddess herself, that Verdant-eyed Demon. They say the last thing you see before he kills you is his glowing green eyes.’_

_‘That’s no man— No Goddess-made creation has blazing eyes and muddy skin. A demon, that one.’_ That rumor was just racist, nothing new there.

There was one nickname in particular that was… unsettling. Mostly it came from the Kingdom soldiers he spared. Unfortunately, some of those men had defected to their army. Good for logistics. But the downside… 

“Oh! It’s Saint Claude!”

And he thought _Master Tactician_ was bad! So far the title wasn’t widespread. Whenever he heard someone refer to him as a damned _saint_ he made sure to do something blasphemous in their general direction.

His glowing eyes were doing him no favors in the ‘saint’ camp. They still weren’t very noticeable in daylight, but if one knew to look for the glow it could be seen.

At least he wasn’t alone in his suffering. Being the current acting archbishop, Teach had their own rumors swirling about. Combined with his actions at Ailell, some were calling them the Twin Saints or the Saint Duo.

Claude knew that nicknames like that tended to stick. He could only hope, if only for his own sanity, that this would be a passing fad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt title: Aren’t you tired of being nice? Don’t you just want to go apeshit?
> 
> You ever just want to, you know *makes a stabbing motion* unwind?
> 
> Claude: *Single-handily decimates half of an army* *Walks off a mortal wound*  
> Claude: What? Why's everyone staring at me?


	15. Silver Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning for this chapter: Graphic descriptions of starvation.
> 
> That aside... YO. Claude's real name dropped like a week ago and I am L I V I N G. There's, like, a single line where I wanted to use Claude's Almyran name in this fic, and I agonized over what it should be. I didn't even come to a decision, deciding I'd cross that bridge when it came time to post that chapter. KHALID. It's so perfect. Like... eerily perfect for this fic lol. Eternal, endless, or immortal. I couldn't have come up with a better name if I tried (and I tried).
> 
> In hindsight, giving Claude the title 'Undying Prince' even back in Almyra as a kid is kinda funny now. Khalid the Undying, aka Immortal the Undying, aka Undying Prince Immortal.

Maybe it was selfish of him to suggest the trip. Privately, he doubted they would find anything on their expedition to Sreng. The book he read hinted that Saint Macuil might have disappeared in the area, but so what? In his pitch to Teach, he claimed that they might find a sacred weapon forged by Macuil. That, he knew, was unlikely. In truth, he was just curious.

Okay, so he wasn’t  _ just  _ curious. He was sick of being cooped up. Sick of wasting away. Underneath his padded armor he was a rake of a human. Was it wrong to want to do something  _ fun? _ His hourglass was running out of sand. He knew it was. Was it so wrong to want to solve one last mystery before he died? He had a month left to him, maybe two. Three if he pushed it. Just enough time to take down Edelgard, probably. Maybe. He might only have days left. Maybe only hours. 

Seeing Dimitri’s pincushioned body at Gronder hadn’t helped either. Something felt wrong knowing the prince had survived against all odds over the years, only to fall at Gronder. Only for his struggles to be in vain.

It hit too close to home.

Besides, it was every Almyran boy’s dream to go out on an expedition through the desert. Claude had grown up on stories about Almyra’s tradition of treasure-hunters, city-seekers, and desert-diggers. There were as many tales of searching for the ‘legendary lost city buried under the sands’ as there were grains of sand. In the stories, the adventures always found magical artifacts or mystical ruins— never the lost city, of course, but worthwhile things nonetheless. 

The stories usually had  _ some _ basis in history, given how many adventurers had searched for the lost city of Shambhala over the centuries. But after hundreds of expeditions, the Almyran desert was well and truly picked clean. Though on occasion interesting things were found, usually expeditions came back empty handed. The lost city was well and truly a myth, but that didn’t stop dreamers from searching for it.

The adventure, the thrill of the unknown— Claude had been enraptured by those stories as a child. Most boys were, but Claude had had the unique advantage of being able to comb through royal archives. It was a little embarrassing to remember how into the subject his six year old self had been.

Claude might not be leading an expedition through Almyra’s desert, but being in Sreng still thrummed a childlike glee through him. There had been expeditions outside of Almyra before of course, but those were less common. Very few to this part of Sreng. Claude doubted they would find anything so legendary as the lost city (but wouldn’t that be amazing if they did?) yet his heart still soared in excitement.

Maybe it was selfish for him to waste time like this. But hey, it was a dying man’s last request. Shouldn’t he be allowed to have this  _ one _ thing? For once he let the weight of war fall from his shoulders. He enjoyed himself.

Until they ran into complications.

Staring at the giant winged beast,  _ the Wind Caller, _ he was beginning to think maybe he should have suggested something a little more relaxing for a vacation.

“Thieves… Only by defeating me can you claim the secret treasure!” the creature bellowed.

“Argh! It speaks! What is it?!” Claude whipped his head to look at his companions, their shocked faces confirming they heard it speak too.

There was no time for idle chatter. Fighting began in earnest.

The nearby thieves made things complicated. They were distractions. On his Wyvern, he was far more mobile than the rest of the Deer. He gave chase to the more distant thieves. Seteth was the only other flyer at the moment, giving chase in the opposite direction.

Which was how Claude found himself separated from the rest of the Deer. Alone, aside from the great beast before him. He cursed.

“I smell those detestable 10 Elites… Who are you?”

Claude stared wide-eyed into the creature’s face. His eyes were drawn to the giant crest stone on the beast’s forehead. Well, it was talking first and not attacking him yet… He tossed out his best smirk. “I’m the grandson of the grandson of the grandson of the elite Riegan. Now tell me who you are!” Not his best line… 

“If that is true, then I am your family’s enemy.” The Wind Caller took another loud sniff, a growl curling in its throat. “Hmm… There is more to you. You are hiding the truth, little liar.” Faster than he expected, the Wind Caller swiped a claw towards him.

Claude pulled back on his reins, dodging the beast. He made to fly out of range of the Wind Caller. He hadn’t counted on it following him, overtaking his speed. He saw his friends fighting across the desert plains, too far away to even hear him cry out.

A scaled claw batted him effortlessly from his mount. In his moment of free fall, he wondered if his crest could save him from deadly heights. Not one to let any opportunity go to waste, he twisted mid air to face the Wind Caller. Failnaught pulsed in time with his thundering heartbeat as he nocked an arrow, aiming for the creature’s eye.

His arrow pinged off the beast’s barrier. Claude braced himself to hit the ground. Instead of the potentially fatal pain that he expected, he felt the air rush from his lungs as something hard caught him. He was engulfed in something scaled, left hanging in the air. The sandy ground was far below him, and with a jerk of his head upward, Claude realized he was caught in the talons of the Wind Caller.

There was a  _ boom _ and a rush of heat near his side. “Watch it!” He called out to Lorenz. The man’s fireball nearly struck  _ him _ instead of the Wind Caller. He heard pings of arrows, saw them glance off the beast’s scales. His companions were shouting, drawing closer.

He felt more than heard the rumbling growl from the Wind Caller. Claude did his best to wiggle out from the creature’s clutches, but doing so only earned him a wheeze as the talons tightened around him. Great twin wings spread wide from the beast’s back. With a single flap it kicked up a sandstorm.

A second flap, then a third, and by the fourth Claude realized the beast wasn’t trying to cause a sandstorm— it was escaping.  _ With him. _

“Let me go!” Claude shouted, a tinge of desperation bleeding into his voice.

The creature either didn’t hear him or ignored him. Claude was given first-hand experience that the Wind Caller was  _ much _ faster than a wyvern as the ground vanished. His friends too vanished into the distance.

Claude stopped struggling, instead holding tight. The beast claimed to be his enemy— what was stopping it from dropping him from an impossible height?

In what was either a few minutes or a few hours later, the Wind Caller landed, diving into a cove along a cliff face. The cave was wide and spacious, more than enough room for the giant Wind Caller.

The Wind Caller tossed him none too gently onto the rocky floor. Claude rolled a few times, grunting as he pushed himself into a ready stance, Failnaught barred before him. He had to bite back a groan of pain— something in his shoulder was definitely broken from that.

The Wind Caller kept some distance between them, prowling in a wide circle around him.

“Now, little liar, I would like some answers,” the Wind Caller rumbled.

Claude cocked his head, keeping his focus on the beast’s movements. “Liar? That’s a bit harsh.” The Wind Caller growled. “But I’m happy to answer any question! We have no reason to be enemies, yes?” He pasted on his best smile.

“Pathetic human, we have plenty of reasons to be enemies. Do not doubt that. I despise all humans.” The Wind Caller paused its prowl, twisting its head. “But I can smell your blood. I smell something ancient. I smell something I knew only once, when I was but a child upon my mother’s lap. Something I thought dead and lost.” The Wind Caller drew closer, bringing its snout within reaching distance. “So I ask you— you claim to be a descendant of Riegan. What else are you a descendant of?”

Claude swallowed, struggling to hide his discomfort. “Nothing too special, that I’m aware of.”

The Wind Caller reached out a talon towards him. Claude jerked back. “If you wish to live, you will remain still,” it rumbled. Gritting his teeth, he stood stock still as the Wind Caller’s talon prodded him. It ran a claw along his forehead, down his chest and arms, then tapped at his heart. For such a large creature, it was being gentle.

The claw came to a stop on his back. It tapped at his left shoulder blade, at a very specific spot. Right at his King’s Mark.

“Ahah, there it is. A brand.” Finally the claw withdrew. “You have the blood of a dragon within you— something other than Nabatean. It is thin, but— yes, the blood of a Divine Dragon.  _ Manakete. _ Here I thought them all dead and gone…”

Claude rolled his shoulder, trying to keep his discomfort from showing. “Dragon blood? What, are you going to tell me I’m  _ your _ grandson of your grandson of your grandson? Because no offense, but I don’t see the family resemblance.”

“Of course not. You are of Riegan, of blood stolen from my sister. I never allowed any human to hold my blood. No, no…” The Wind Caller’s voice grew quieter, almost a mumble. It began to pace, talking to itself. “Mother thought us all alone… was she mistaken? Did our kin roam the land? Do they still…?”

“Well that’s a lot to unpack,” Claude murmured to himself.

The Wind Caller stopped paying attention to him, pacing and muttering in a language Claude didn’t know. He ran a hand along his collarbone, gritting his teeth when his nerves lit aflame. His collarbone was definitely broken. His eyes traced the barren cave. Just him and the Wind Caller. Anything he could use to trigger his crest was no doubt scared away. Not that a bat or two would be enough to heal much more than a cut. He could easily heal enough by triggering his crest off the Wind Caller, but that was idiotic for so many reasons. His eyes drifted to the entrance of the cave— and the sheer drop below it. On a good day he might be able to climb his way to safety, but with a broken collarbone? Might as well throw himself from the cliff.

With no other option he settled down and tried to relax. He kept his eyes on the Wind Caller of course. He holstered Failnaught over his chest, resting the creststone over his heart— just how he liked it. The bow gave him a pulse of comfort, despite the circumstances.

How had the Wind Caller known where his King’s Mark was? As far as he was aware, the mark was just a mark. A symbol of fate, sure. But it was just a pretty birthmark in the shape of the First King’s symbol. Nothing magical about it.

What did his King’s Mark have to do with _ divine dragon blood, _ of all things?

The Wind Caller stopped abruptly, eyes darting to him. “Tell me of where you come from. What God or Goddess do you worship there?” Claude opened his mouth to avoid the question, but was cut off. “Refuse to give a true answer and I will decorate this cave with your entrails.”

Claude nodded. “Riiiight.” He sighed, resigning himself to the truth. His reluctance was more from habit anyways— he doubted the Wind Caller had much of a taste for politics. “I’m of Almyra. We don’t really have Gods or Goddesses, not like here in Fódlan. We usually pray to the Stars, beyond that the land itself. We give thanks to the earth and water, nature and fire, even the dirt and bugs. For less concrete things— like fate, war, love, vengeance, mischief— we pray to the Stars. ”

The Wind Caller made a rumbling noise— something almost sad? “Is that so? Curious. No Deities at all? Perhaps I am mistaken, then.” The creature looked away. “Legends, perhaps? Stories of dragons or divine creatures? Tales of a fallen star, of beings from the heavens?”

“We have some about that last one,” Claude racked his mind to remember the exact legend. “Let’s see— once, long long ago, before Almyra was joined as one nation, the stars fell from the sky. So many stars fell, each and every one beautiful.” As Claude spoke, his natural affinity for storytelling shone through. He forgot that his audience consisted of a giant beast that could easily crush him, letting himself get lost in the old story. 

“The bright stars of the sky brought gifts and happiness to the dim people of the land. All that the stars asked in return was to dance and sing alongside the people. The stars had been watching the people and their celebrations. The stars were bright but they did not understand the rituals of humans. And so the people of the land threw a celebration unlike any before or since. They danced through the night and the next day too. It was only when the next night came that the stars left and returned to the sky. One by one they returned, until only one remained. The last star refused to return, having fallen in love with the people of the land. And so he stayed, and the people flocked to his light. He became the first King of Almyra, guiding his people and his children. But as time passed, he grew to worry that the people of the land were dependent on him. He worried that his light left the people unable to survive the dark without him. And so he too returned to the sky, leaving Almyra to his children. Despite returning to the sky, he never forgot his children below. He made sure to always shine extra bright for them, to guide them when no other light would. We call his star the ‘Guiding King star’, the star that governs fate.” Claude swallowed, having gotten caught up telling the old story. “It’s just an old legend, though. I doubt it holds much truth.”

The Wind Caller hummed, having sunken to a sitting position. “You doubt the truth of such a tale? Tell me then, human of Almyran kings, where else would your divine blood well from?”

Claude choked on his spit. “Whu— I’m not— Hold on, hold on. I never said I was related to the king!”

“Am I wrong?”

“...no.”

The Wind Caller let out a long trill. Claude got the sense it was  _ laughing _ at him. “There you have your answer. Mother descended from the stars as well. The Argarthians even called her the Fell Star.” Claude was surprised to hear the name. He remembered Solon referring to Teach with that moniker. The creature trailed off. It seemed almost wistful. “Hmm… how curious.”

The sound of wings drew their attention to the cave entrance. Seteth burst in, halberd raised.

“Huzza! I’m saved!” Claude deadpanned, giving a wave to Seteth. “My hero!”

“Claude!” Seteth leapt from his wyvern and placed himself between the Wind Caller and Claude. “I am pleased to see you in one piece!”

“Cichol…” the Wind Caller rumbled. “It has been—”

“I do believe you are mistaken,  _ beast,” _ Seteth cut the Wind Caller off. Claude wasn’t sure if he was impressed or convinced Seteth had a death wish. “I,  _ Seteth, _ am a descendant of the holy Saint Cichol. I will be taking Claude now.”

The Wind Caller snorted. “Still the same as always. Peace, little brother.”

_ “Oooooh,” _ Claude whispered to himself. He had his theories about Seteth being Saint Cichol, but this added a whole new dimension to it all.  _ Brother _ to the Wind Caller? How did that work?

Seteth slapped a hand to his forehead. “Dammit. Must you always be such a pain?!” Seteth hissed at the Wind Caller.

“Is that how you greet me after so long? Hmph, I should have known.”

Seteth spared an eye towards Claude. Grinning, Claude gave him a  _ ‘go-on’ _ gesture and a thumbs-up for good measure. The long sigh he dragged out of Seteth was satisfying. Seteth returned his attention to the Wind Caller. “Fine. If we are being candid… You should know that all is not well. Our sister is in a rather precarious state. We could use your aid.”

The Wind Caller huffed. “Seiros has been in a ‘precarious’ state since the slaughter of our people. Whatever her problems, I am certain she brought them on herself. I will take no part in the world of men.”

Seteth gave a reluctant nod. “I thought you would say as such.”

“But you, little brother, could come with me,” the Wind Caller rumbled. Seteth gave a visible start. “I have learned that mother’s belief of being the last of her kin may have been incorrect. No, no.” The Wind Caller turned to peer at Claude. “She was certainly incorrect.”

“What? That’s impossible.”

“I thought so myself— but we never did check for ourselves, did we? So I am off to do so. Perhaps I shall find only legend. Perhaps I shall find only bones. But I have already found their blood— what is to say I won’t find more? Perhaps some Manakete still live. This is my only offer, Cichol.”

Seteth’s face was pinched. “I— I cannot. I have my daugh— my sister to take care of.”

“I know Flayn’s your daughter, don’t censor yourself for me,” Claude called, taking a gamble that he was right.

Seteth pinched the brow of his nose. “Hmph. I have my family to take care of.”

The Wind Caller nodded. “Very well. If you ever do change your mind, my search begins in Almyra. Give Cethleanne my regards, will you?” The Wind Caller rose and made for the entrance of the cave. Then it paused, turning to Claude. “I suppose I never did give you my treasure for defeating me.”

“I won’t say no to some treasure,” Claude replied, “but for the sake of honesty I’m pretty sure  _ I _ was the one defeated here.”

“Is that so? Yet you still have your life, and you managed to be the first to surprise me in centuries. You have more than earned this.” A sword was flung by Claude’s feet. “And perhaps it will aid you in taming your blood.” The Wind Caller spread its wings. “Farewell, little brother. Farewell, child of twin divinity. May fate be kind to you both.” Then it was gone.

There was an awkward moment as Claude and Seteth stared at each other in silence. 

“‘Child of twin divinity’?”

“‘Little Brother’?”

Seteth sighed. “Please do not spread this around. Though, I am a touch alarmed at how unsurprised you seem.”

Claude shrugged. “I had my theories. Now, my  _ real _ question is about how closely you’re related to that big feathery fella. Can you turn into a Wind Caller too? Ooh, can Flayn?”

“The others are  _ very _ worried about you, so let’s not make them wait, yes?”

“Sure. I’m not about to stop asking just because we’ve got an audience though, _ Mr. Saint Cichol, sir.” _

Seteth stopped in his tracks. He ran a hand down his face. “No, I cannot change my form anymore. Neither can Flayn. Now  _ you _ explain how you convinced Macuil that there are other of our… of our kin beyond Fódlan.”

“Wait wait, holdup— Macuil? As in, Saint Macuil?”

Seteth raised an eyebrow.

“Ahem, right. I imagined him looking a little more human. Well, guess that’s one mystery solved…” Claude eyed the blade at his feet. It gleamed with silver and blue light, just like the other saint weapons. “Nice of it to leave this.”

“I’ll wait all day for your reply if I must. My, the others must be oh so worried about you.”

“Fiiine. It said— er, sorry, he?— he said he could smell my blood.” Claude grimaced. “Which, first off, gross. Can you smell my blood? That’s gross.”

“No, I cannot.”

“Anyways, he started going on about how he could smell my ‘dragon blood’ and how it wasn’t only ‘nabatan’ or something like that. I think he said ‘manakete’? Hey, Seteth, what’s nabatan and manakete?”

Seteth’s brow pinched, looking off into the distance. “Nabatean. That would be what we are. Myself, Flayn, Macuil. We are Nabatean, just as you are human. And Manakete… You could think of them as cousins to Nabateans, of a sort. Close, but not quite the same. My kind are an offshoot of the Manakete.”

Claude hummed. “And crests are from your blood? From the blood of a ‘Nabatean’?” Claude was reminded of Flayn’s tale five years ago of how Saint Cethlenne saved her champion by feeding them her blood. “If you can grant such a boon, I can see why you’re all so secretive about it.” He remembered when Flayn had been kidnapped during school. He also remembered Macuil’s comment about ‘stolen blood’. His stomach churned at the thought.

“So you see why it is  _ imperative _ that you hold your tongue.”

“No need to worry. I won’t go telling anyone that you’re a secret lizard-man.”

Seteth tilted his head. “And so Macuil was convinced you have Manakete blood. That’s… well, if that statement came from anyone else, I would have my doubts. You have a penchant for managing the impossible. Whatever gave you the blood of a  _ divine dragon?” _

“No clue,” he lied. He doubted Seteth would understand the importance of his King’s Mark, or that apparently the first King of Almyra might have been a dragon. He wasn’t about to take that risk, though. His Almyran heritage was acceptable collateral— the fact that he was a prince was not.

Seteth huffed, lost in thought as he stared at the ground. “To think, we might have had kin living outside Fódlan this entire time…”

Claude let Seteth stew in his thoughts. He picked up the blade left on the ground, twirling it in his hand. He eyed it, frowning. It was— familiar, somehow. It was nothing like Failnaught. Failnaught felt alive. The blade he held was cold: metal and energy. But it felt  _ right. _ Cool sparks traveled from the hilt and through his gloves, tracing up his arm and coursing through his body. He felt himself relax, a tension he hadn’t noticed leaving his shoulders. Like slipping into a refreshing oasis after a lifetime in the desert.

His heart gave an excited flip, Failnaught pulsing in time. Matching him as always.

The sword felt familiar in his hands, intimately so. Like an old friend or an old treasured possession. He knew for a fact he had never held the blade before in his life, he  _ knew _ that. Still, he searched his memory for any possible time he could have come in contact with the unique sword. It was  _ his. _ It had always been  _ his. _

He squinted at the sword. The longer he held it, the more it felt like he was on the cusp of remembering something important. Like waking up after a long sleep and fumbling to remember a fading dream.

Like he could remember… remember what…?

“Begalta’s sword,” Seteth gasped, eyes caught on the blade. “I thought it lost.”

“Mine now,” Claude blurted. He turned the blade over in his hands again. The blade was broad, far broader than any one-handed sword he’d ever used. But between the short hilt meant for one hand, and the surprising light weight of it, he couldn’t see it being wielded as anything else. Even odder was the rounded tip. The sword would be entirely useless for stabbing. In his mind’s eye he could perfectly envision devastating swings. “You recognize it?”

Seteth was silent. Claude looked up, tearing his attention away from the blade. Seteth looked conflicted, his eyes trailing along the sword. “I’m surprised Macuil would give it to you. Truly, you must have impressed him.” His voice was quiet, a sad note to it. “It belonged to our sister.”

“Oh.” Claude felt a bit awkward for claiming dibs on it. He took note of the use of past tense. “Your sister— not Flayn, I assume. Seiros, then?” Stars, that felt odd to say.

“No, not Seiros.” Seteth’s face crumpled. “Hmph, perhaps I am growing sentimental after all these years. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. You remind me of her, though. Painfully, at times.”

“Your sister?” Claude carefully prodded.

“Mm. Always too curious for her own good. Could never leave a good mystery alone.” Seteth grew a wretchedly sad smile. “Begalta was always getting into trouble, dragging whoever she could down with her. Me, more often than not. She never could leave any stone unturned, even when it meant going somewhere we weren’t supposed to.”

Claude shuddered, his heart clenched with a wave of grief. He struggled to keep his expression straight as his heart churned with longing for days long past. He missed how things used to be. He missed… 

Wait.  _ What? _

He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “Heh, yeah I guess I can see how that might remind you of me…” his throat caught.  _ Where was this coming from? _ Sure, Seteth looked pathetically sad, but that was no explanation for his sudden swell of emotions.

Seteth continued, too wrapped up in his nostalgia to notice Claude’s sudden turn in demeanor. “I wonder if that is what Macuil saw in you.” Seteth’s hands were gentle as he took hold of the blade still in Claude’s hand. He ran his fingers along the flat of the blade, circling a star-like indentation. He huffed a laugh. “She would so often sneak out at night to watch the stars. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you do the same, Claude.”

“Ah, you noticed?” Claude fought to keep his voice from cracking. Something bittersweet and longing unfurled in his chest. To his horror, Claude felt the prickle of tears forming in the corner of his eyes. “Stars are great,” he croaked.

“Mm. She loved the stars. She would always drag whoever she could convince to watch the stars with her. Night after night she would pester me.”

Claude bit his lip. His chest hurt.  _ Just tonight, brother. Just one night. You’ll love the stars. _ He could imagine it with startling clarity. Like the hazy dreams he often had, where he would drag someone out to watch the stars. Someone with dark green hair.

“She would always beg me to join her, claiming she would cease her pestering if I agreed. Come the next night and she would pester me again.” Seteth sighed. “I regret all of the nights I squandered and refused. I miss her.”

_ I miss you too. I miss you I miss you I miss you—  _

“My apologies, Claude. I didn’t mean to unload all of that. I suppose I haven’t spoken about her since…” Seteth made a small noise. “I suppose I haven’t spoken about her at all since her death. Seeing her sword, it threw me off kilter.”

“Uh-huh,” Claude choked. He looked away, desperately fighting back tears. He clutched a hand at his chest. Each heartbeat seemed too slow, too painful. His hand settled over his heart where Failnaught’s stone rested. He gripped the creststone, desperate for any kind of anchor. Instead, he was swept in another wave of grief. His other hand rushed to his mouth. He bit down on his hand, desperate to choke back the feelings.

“Are you alright?” Seteth finally noticed that Claude was falling apart.

“Uh, n-not sure,” Claude gasped, tears falling.

Seteth jolted. “Claude?!”

Claude wheezed, curling in on himself. He buried his face in his lap, unable to hold back a sob. “I d-don’t know w-w-what’s wrong!” He barely kept himself from wailing. A tide of emotions threatened to drown him.

Claude felt a hesitant hand along his back, slowly rubbing circles. “It’s alright Claude, you’re safe now. You can let it out. Please, do not fear that I will judge you.”

Claude gasped, letting the floodgate release. Not that he had much of a choice. He wailed, one hand reaching out for Seteth, the other still clutching at his own chest, at Failnaught’s creststone. His heart pounded  _ grief grief grief _ with every beat. He clutched at Seteth, mindlessly burrowing closer to the man.

_ Miss you miss you miss you love you love you so so much never told you miss you miss you brother miss you miss you never got to say goodbye brother miss you miss you—  _

Seteth, after a moment, wrapped Claude in a hug. He ran a hand through Claude’s hair and let Claude’s tears soak his shirt.

A humming whisper echoed in Claude’s ears, and he curled himself tighter. It was the lullaby Failnaught always whispered to him in his darker nights. He focused on the melody of words sung in a language he didn’t know. Slowly the hurt in his chest eased, his sobs dwindling.

Finally he felt recovered enough to catch his breath, but not recovered enough to feel ashamed yet. He listened to the familiar melody. He let it comfort him. He could feel the vibrations of Seteth’s voice as he softly sang.

Claude’s mind felt mushy. Something was off.

The voice was different.

Seteth was singing Failnaught’s lullaby.

Under his hand, Failnaught twinged something regretful, something longing. His heart mirrored the twinge.

Claude had learned a lot of things in the past hour. His brain mashed together an equation of something he was half convinced was a dream, half horrified might be real.

Failnaught always matched his heartbeat. He’d just thought it a quirk of the weapon. Now he felt stupid. How many times had he sought comfort in Failnaught? How many times had he allowed it to slow his racing heart, to calm his restless thoughts? He  _ knew  _ there was something almost sentient about crest weapons.

He knew Failnaught matched his heartbeat. He never thought about all the times  _ his _ heartbeat matched Failnaught’s.

_ It was a two-way path. _

Seteth was still running a hand through his hair. “Are you feeling better?”

Claude peered up at Seteth. He would have plenty of time to feel embarrassed that he sat in the man’s lap like a child, so he scheduled that freak out for another time. “What happened—” his throat caught, dry from crying. “—to your sister?”

Seteth’s eyes were sad. “Would you like me to tell you a story?”

Claude shook his head. Seteth misunderstood— Claude didn’t want to be distracted. He wanted the truth. He clutched Failnaught. He had intended to shove Failnaught towards Seteth, but suddenly the idea of parting from his bow felt unbearable. He gestured to the crest stone. “Failnaught sings me the same lullaby.”

Seteth’s mouth fell open.

“I’ve never— I can feel— there’s all these emotions—” Claude closed his eyes and grit his teeth, willing his words to stop tumbling out as nonsense. “Seteth, why does my bow  _ miss you?” _ His voice cracked again.

“You can… hear her?” Seteth’s voice was a ghost of a whisper.

“She’s never been this loud before. But kinda, yeah.”

Seteth reached out a hesitant hand. He ran his fingers along the crest stone.

Claude choked out a sob at the contact, a thousand emotions springing to the surface. Foreign feelings that he knew weren’t his,  _ couldn’t _ be his, thrashed through his rib cage. He  _ knew _ they weren’t his. But the joy of reunion, the ache of seeing an old loved one, the elation he felt at  _ seeing brother Cichol again, it’s been so long—  _ he knew the emotions weren’t his, but they felt so  _ real. _

Seteth jerked his hand back, aghast.

“N-no, you’re fine!” Claude gasped, “Nnnhh, tha-a-at was a lot of h-happy emotions. A-and she misses you. Lotta bittersweet too.” Claude panted, catching his breath. Failnaught pulsed and pulsed and so did his heart. There was something desperate in him to communicate. “She n-never thought she’d s-s-see you again.”

Seteth inched his hand back over the stone. This time Claude was able to brace for the barrage of emotions. The torrent still threatened to overwhelm him. “I can’t hear anything,” Seteth murmured, but he didn’t remove his hand.

“Tch, ‘m practically going deaf here. Emotionally. Can’t tell which emotions are mine and which aren’t.” 

“Are you alright?” Seteth asked.

He felt dizzy from it all. Exhausted. He slumped bonelessly into Seteth, his body feeling numb. “‘M good enough. She doesn’t really talk,” he babbled, “‘cept for when she sings. Other than that, just whispers. Can’t hear usually, just emotions. Never really… thought about it. ‘S calming, sometimes when ‘m stressed. Excited, when I fight. Sad too, usually, but maybe that’s jus’ me. Don’t like fighting…”

“She never did either…” Seteth breathed. His heart leaped, a joy in being recognized, in being remembered.

“She’s happy you remember her,” Claude mumbled. “Seteth? Why’re creststones people?”

Seteth was silent for a moment. “You know our blood grants crests. You’re smart, Claude. What do you think would happen if someone fashioned weapons from the bones and heart of a Nabatean?”

Claude’s heart squeezed, and he knew it to be true. He thought of all the other hero relics. How the Lance of Ruin twitched and chittered. How Hilda complained that Friekugel pulsed. How Teach’s sword resembled a spine. “Oh.”

“Although… I never knew they retained their memories.” Seteth’s voice dripped with misery.

Claude felt his eyes slide half-closed. He was so tired. “If it makes you feel any better… I don’ think the others are aware…” Claude murmured, not really conscious of what he was saying. “Didn’t ‘member much ‘ntil Claude woke me…”

Seteth froze. “…Begalta?”

Claude hummed, worn out. His eyes slid shut, and he felt safe.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Haha what the fuck,” Claude blurt out immediately upon waking. _Crazy dream..._

He was alone in his room. A glance at the window told him it was nighttime. He ran a hand down his face, groaning. Despite just waking up, he felt wrung out.

Getting kidnapped by the Wind Caller. Finding out that the Wind Caller was Saint Macuil. Something about dragon blood. Failnaught having a literal heart-to-heart with him. Breaking down in front of Seteth.  _ Failnaught used to be a person. _

_ What a wild fever dream. _

He fumbled with his memories, trying to remember what  _ actually  _ happened. He gave up, resigned to ask someone in the morning.

He was still dressed. He spared a thought to be grateful to whoever left him without stripping him down. The Deer knew his condition was getting worse, but few knew how bad it was. One look at him without his armor would be all it would take.

He didn’t want his last weeks to be filled with pity.

He winced as he stretched, pulling at his recently healed collarbone. His skin twitched, a familiar restlessness churning in him. Glancing down at his bedside table he noticed a cup of fruit juice. In Hilda’s penmanship was written  _ ‘if you wake up, EAT! Or else ;)’ _

Not one to risk Hilda’s wrath unnecessarily, he forced himself to drink.

Sipping at his juice, he glanced around his cluttered room. He idly scratched at his arm. His eyes caught on Failnaught, a knot of unease loosening in his chest. It was a bit embarrassing that Hilda and Lorenz knew about his odd ‘attachment’ to the bow. It was useful, though. They knew he liked to keep it close.

He blinked, noticing the sword next to Failnaught.

A familiar sword.

… Not a fever dream, then.

He resigned himself to a lifetime of avoiding Seteth.

_ (A lifetime for him wouldn’t be very long, so it shouldn’t be too hard.) _

He stretched again, groaning. His joints twisted as he strained them as far as they would go, hissing at the faint pain. The room felt cramped. His tight skin was twitchy, like ants were crawling just below the surface. He fumbled with his clothes, tugging himself out of his jacket. His shirt joined it on the floor as he yanked it over his head.

He raked his nails down his chest. He winced at how defined his ribs were. He kept thinking he couldn’t get any thinner, only to be horrified to be proven wrong. His skin clung tight between every rib, his chest giving a rippling appearance. Long gone were his school days where he could wear low cut shirts. Now he wore a high collar out of necessity. If he wore an extra poofy cravat, no one but his inner circle knew it was to hide his state.

The amount of weight he’d lost since coming back to Garreg Mach was startling. Terrifying. His careful crest-use of the past five years meant nothing now. Before he started actively taking part in the war, he had managed to at least keep some muscle definition. Even that was gone now. In the scant months since he’d started fighting again, he’d lost everything. He was thin skin wrapped tight over bone. Could-be-mistaken-for-a-corpse level of thin.

How he could even move, let alone move with the same grace and strength as always, was a mystery. Sometimes he feared he would be blown away by a gust of wind. To say his limbs were twigs was an understatement. He hadn’t even known it was possible to get so thin. He’d told himself so many times that it couldn’t get worse, that he couldn’t get thinner. Now it was  _ true. _ He had nothing left. Unless he lost his skin, this was as thin as he could get. Even with his skin, he knew he looked like a skeleton. Like a walking corpse.

He didn’t like to look in mirrors anymore.

He couldn't even hold down solids anymore. He couldn’t eat.

Marianne explained to him that it sometimes happened in the worst cases of starvation. Anything he ate that wasn’t liquid he threw up. Considering how shrunken his stomach was, with how his torso was hollow enough to be used as a bowl, it shouldn’t have come as a shock.

Despite that, whenever he used his crest, he still spewed out an ungodly amount of silver.

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. What was next? Would he stop breathing? Would his heart stop beating, just like Teach? Or would he just fall over dead one of these days?

The healers could do nothing for him. Poor Marianne. He always made sure to tell her over and over again it wasn’t her fault, but he knew she took it as a personal failing. Even among his friends, few knew how bad he had gotten. Marianne and Hilda were the only ones, and not even Hilda knew the worst of it. Flayn and Lorenz knew he was coming close to his end, but he kept as many details from them as he could. Not even Linhardt knew the full extent of his physical condition. He might have to add Seteth to that list though, considering the man carried him back. His padded clothes added to his paltry weight, but even they couldn’t hide everything.

His chest hurt, his skin pulled too tight over his ribs. Sometimes he worried if he moved too fast, the ribs might tear through his skin. So far battle proved that to be unfounded, but the thought still lingered. He scraped at the itch even though he knew it was pointless. His skin prickled with heat.

A sure sign that his crest wanted out.

He fumbled out of bed and reached for Failnaught. He swung the bow over his head and rested the creststone over his heart. The silver stone was cool against his flesh, pulsing a greeting. He closed his eyes and sunk against the wall, giving a relieved hum. Already he could feel the rippling under his skin subside. It wouldn’t be enough— not permanently. But in the now, Failnaught could lessen the pain.

He wondered if he could last until the end of the month.

He wondered if he could last until the end of the week.

He gave a full body jerk as something icy ebbed up his arm and through the rest of him. Twitching his head, he saw the sword. The sword that he was holding.

He probably should be more concerned about the fact that he unconsciously reached for the sword. In the moment, however, all he could feel was total  _ relief. _ His whole body went lax. Aches that he didn’t even realize he had vanished. His lungs expanded, pulling in a deeper breath than he’d managed in weeks. Things he’d been dealing with for years— joint pain, tight skin, chronic aches. Gone.

Maybe  _ this _ was the dream. Or maybe he was dead? Marianne, Linhardt, and Flayn had been trying to find something to help with his pain for  _ years. _ Short of doping him up on opium (no thanks) there had been nothing to help with his failing body.

He huffed a laugh. To think, the one thing that helped was some random sword passed over to him by the whim of a creature that hated humanity.

Not any random sword, though.  _ His sword. It was  _ **_his._ **

He frowned, the possessive thought surprising him. Yet… it felt  _ right. _ It was  _ his sword, he  _ **_made_ ** _ it with big brother Macuil, it was made for  _ **_him,_ ** _ made—  _

He blinked, then looked down at the silver creststone faintly glowing on his chest. “You’re loud tonight,” he whispered. “Guess it really wasn’t a dream, then.”

Something warm coiled in his chest. It was the same warm feeling he got when he saw Teach or Hilda or any of his friends. But it wasn’t his feeling.

“Heh. Good to see you too.” What a picture he must make. Talking to his bow. He frowned. “So, you’re Seteth’s sister?”

It was surreal. Failnaught didn’t speak to him, not with words. Instead it was a feeling, an affirmation. After speaking the question, he just  _ knew _ that he was right.

Claude rubbed a thumb down the tan shell of the bow. He’d always thought it looked like bone and tendons. With sudden certainty, he  _ knew  _ it was bones and tendons. More than Seteth telling him, he just… knew. His bow was made from body parts. A mishmash of a corpse. Something that used to be sentient, used to be a  _ person. _ Something that was  _ still _ sentient.

Failnaught pulsed with something both sad and soothing.

“Shouldn’t I be comforting you? Not the other way around?”

His chest clenched with bittersweet emotion.

“Failnaught—” he paused, realizing his mistake. “No, that’s not your name, is it? Begalta. That’s what Seteth called you.”

Nostalgia trickled through him like warm honey.

“Begalta, then. I’m sorry.” He was. All these years he’d used Fai— he’d used Begalta as nothing but a weapon. He hadn’t known, but nonetheless— 

A reprimand hissed through him, light and paper-thin annoyance. It felt a bit like being annoyed at himself, but he knew the annoyance didn’t come from him.

“Guess you don’t want my apologies?”

_ Affirmation. _

“Is there anything I can do for you? Like, funeral rites maybe? I can’t imagine being trapped as you are is… comfortable. Something to help your soul find rest?” If it meant never using the weapon ever again, that was fine. Using Begalta in battle left a sour taste in his mouth now that he knew. Still, he’d miss her. He’d grown attached to her over the years— never mind how much she helped with his crest-illness. He’d come to see her as something like a friend, even before he knew.

He was feeling a bit misty-eyed over the idea of parting. The feeling seemed to echo in his mind. This had been the single good thing to come from centuries of torment, _wasn’t about to leave Claud—_

Claude shook his head. He needed practice parsing his own feelings from Begalta’s. “Hey now, don’t go denying yourself on account of me. You more than deserve to rest.”

Protectiveness whipped through his chest.

“Mm, well I can’t say I’m disappointed.”

A warm glow enveloped his heart.  _ Faith. Friendship. Love. Trust. _

“Gah, you’re so gooey,” Claude hissed as he clutched his head, the onslaught of sentiment leaving him dizzy.

_ Trust. _

Hah, wasn’t that funny. Begalta  _ trusted _ him. Even though she knew how he was. She knew his heart.

He trusted her too.

The realization struck him like an axe. He’d trusted her for years— trusted her to land shots he didn’t have time to aim. Trusted her to alert him if he missed an oncoming attack. Trusted her to guard him as he slept. Trusted her enough to confide his fears of dying, his homesickness, his nightmares.

He laughed. “To think, the only person I’ve ever fully trusted is my bow. I’m not sure if that’s poetic or pathetic.”

_ Warmth, understanding, love. _

He rested his palm over Begalta’s creststone. He took a moment to let the feeling wash over him. It was… different. Nice. “So, why only talk to me now?”

_ Confusion. Disorientation. Never-ending nightmare. Silver-laced heat: clarity. Warmth seeping past bone, mixing and melding. _

Claude circled his thumb along the creststone. Closing his eyes, he could practically envision how Begalta’s creststone started turning silver, years ago. He could imagine the way it felt: like something foreign waking him with a warm blanket, soothing aches thought permanent. Something to bolster and renew, dripping between the cracks of his soul. Not  _ his _ soul though.  _ Hers. _ “I was pretty worried when you started turning silver, you know. Thought I broke you.”

_ Affirmation. _

Claude snorted. “Yeah, I guess you would know.”

His gaze drifted down to the sword without conscious thought. He felt an impression of waking up, of realizing a dream wasn’t actually a dream and that things were real. A feeling of snapping back to reality.

So the sword was the real catalyst that pushed Begalta into being so ‘chatty’. 

“And this? Holding it, it feels… good.”

_ Hope. Crushing, desperate hope. _

He puffed out a breath. “Nngh, alright. Can’t say I’m a big fan of relying on hope.”

_ Desperation. Hope. Fear, loneliness. _

He thumped his head against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. Parsing the meaning of so many sudden emotions was difficult. It didn’t help that her desperation tugged  _ him _ into feeling desperate too. It didn’t help that her fear and her loneliness crushed the air from his lungs. He clutched at her feeling of hope. “Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright. Don’t worry, I’m here.”

_ Affirmation. Mourning. Sadness, sadness, sadness. _

He shuttered, a ghost of a feeling cleaving through his shoulder. A phantom pain of a sword, curling around him and pulling tight.

_ Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. _

“Oh.” It wasn’t like he forgot he was dying— he was more aware day by day. But he hadn’t thought about how Begalta felt about it. “I’ll make sure you go to Seteth when I—”

_ Rage. Disagreement. Refusal, denial, rejection.  _

He grunted at the emotions jammed into his chest. He snarled. “Look, I don’t want to die either!”

His grip tightened over the sword without his conscious thought.

His shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to die,” he murmured.

_ Affirmation. Sadness, agreement. _

He hung his head. Begalta hummed, her heartbeat steady. He heard her whispered lullaby tickle at the back of his thoughts. He let her lull him to sleep.

His dreams were filled with stars. They glittered in the distance. He tried to walk towards them, but no matter how far into the sky he walked, the stars never grew closer. He shouted at them, wordless in his attempt to gain their attention.

The stars couldn’t hear him.

They never could.

There was a hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes to pink.

“Hilda?” He croaked.

Her whole body slumped as she released a breath. “Thank the Goddess,” she whispered. “You weren’t waking. I thought…”

Guilt surged through him. “Sorry.”

She wrapped him in a fragile hug. He remembered with sudden clarity where he was. Sat against the wall, chest naked aside from Begalta. She held him like he was glass. He hated letting anyone see him bare like this, letting anyone see how close he was to his deathbed. At least his King’s Mark was still hidden against the wall. He couldn’t let Hilda see that.

“Please don’t apologize.” Her whisper was watery.

“Only if you promise not to cry.”

She sniffed. “Like I’d cry for you. Just don’t scare me like that again.”

“I was having a good dream. Knock louder next time.”

She shook her head. “Not just that. When the Wind Caller took you… Goddess, I think I lost five years of my life waiting for Seteth to bring you back.”

“Sure, sure. Next time I’ll make sure to ask the giant beast kidnapping me to please not kidnap me.”

Hilda huffed. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”  _ ‘Still alive’, not ‘alright’, because they both knew he wasn’t.  _ Hilda reached down by her side and produced a cup that she pushed against his chest. With a reluctance he hoped Hilda didn’t notice, he let go of Begalta’s creststone to take the cup. He drank it in slow sips. Thick cream, spiced with various nutritional additives. Like fish oil. Tasted awful. He missed food. All he ate now was gross milk, thin juice, and occasionally broth if he was lucky.

“You know me— if it can understand me, I’ll sweet talk it.” Begalta hummed with amusement. “Really, I think I got out of that pretty well. Free sword and a free broken collarbone. Not bad.”

Hilda frowned. “Broken collarbone?” She gave a critical eye at his bony collarbone. “Did you use your crest…?”

“Nope. Uhhh…” He paused, realizing he had no idea how his collarbone had been fixed.

“Marianne said you were free of any injuries when Seteth brought you back.”

“What? But then, how—” His grip tightened around the sword. His eyes glanced downwards. “Ooooh. Well that’s neat. The sword heals? Huh.”

_ Hope.  _

“Usually swords do the opposite of healing, Claude. That’s the point.”

Claude shrugged. “This one’s special. Apparently.”

“Really, you’re replacing your  _ precious  _ Wo Dao?” Hilda teased him.

“My Wo Dao doesn’t glow. It’s been outperformed.”

“Please tell me you didn’t get this one the same way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have NO IDEA how excited I've been to post this chapter. Anyways, after this chapter will be a few smaller ones before we get back into the real meat of it all. Claude's not out of the woods yet. This fic is around slightly less than 2/3rds of the way finished. 
> 
> Instead of coming up with a name for Failnaught/the Star dragon, I used the name on the Sword of Begalta. Never really thought about the name of the sword until I started writing this fic. There's practically nothing on it. So... Sword of Begalta... aka Begalta's Sword... aligns with the Riegan crest... Thus: Begalta!
> 
> Anyways, I hope the info dropped in this chapter is satisfying. There's still a lot more to go, but finally our poor boi is getting some answers... and a whole lot more questions with those answers.


	16. Withered Heart

Claude wanted to have a nice, long chat with Linhardt and Lysithea about crests. What he got instead was meeting after meeting with the never ending complaints of nobles. He didn’t have _time_ to waste with them.

Damn, he was starting to sound like Lysithea.

He ran a hand through his hair. His desk was covered in notes, drafted letters, and endless paperwork. He couldn’t wait to get back to Garreg Mach— being in Derdriu was torture. Any self-important noble that wanted to bug him was only a short distance away. At least in Garreg Mach he was surrounded by allies that respected his time.

He thumbed Begalta’s sword at his hip. Begalta herself pulsed at his back. He was coming to learn that she had very little emotional retention. When something upset her, she became very upset very quickly (which in turn affected him). But then as soon as that passed, she could swing to any other emotion just as easily. It was jarring to remember that she didn’t have a body of her own to regulate her emotions through. Even more jarring to remember she wasn’t even alive. When she felt something, she felt it intensely. That meant it was up to him to keep himself in check when she influenced him. Times like these though, he could only be grateful for her calm and comfortable pressense washing away his frustration.

She was harder to hear holstered against his back instead of over his heart, but he was already pushing his diplomatic privileges by being armed at all. Having her strapped to his chest was just asking for trouble. She wasn’t small by any means. Being his house relic, however, gave him a lot of leeway. If he had to guess, the Roundtable assumed he was showing off. It was the same with Begalta’s sword at his hip— as far as anyone else knew, he was just showing off his recent prize. No one knew he was using the two weapons as glorified life-support.

Fort Merceus. They needed to break Fort Merceus. If they took the fort, he could use the army’s momentum and slingshot to Enbarr before the Empire had a chance to prepare. But the Stubborn Old General was nothing to scoff at. The Roundtable wouldn’t give him any troops until the next month. He couldn’t wait that long— waiting until the end of the current month was already pushing it.

Sneaking in was a good start. He could work with that. But that wasn’t enough. He needed an edge.

A knock came at his door.

Claude sat up straight. “Enter.” If it was another noble, he was going to strangle someone. Maybe himself.

“Hey kiddo, good to see you again!” Nader bellowed, closing the door behind him.

“Nader! I’m saved!” Claude all but sunk into his chair in relief. “You came fast.”

Nader chuckled. “I’m not exactly far away at the moment. About time you came back to your responsibilities.” His face twisted into a grimace. “Nobles in these parts are one hell of a pain to deal with.”

Claude slumped forward to rest his face on his desk. “Guh, don’t remind me.”

“Cheer up! I brought you a little care package from home.” Nader flourished a plainly wrapped package.

Claude eyed the package. “A care package?” He carefully unwrapped it.

He stared.

Nader’s hand thumped down on his shoulder, meeting the thick padding of his outfit. “You deserve it, kiddo.”

Claude brushed a gloved hand across the black and yellow fabric. He stared at the uniform innocently tucked inside the package. _Barbarossa._ How many times as a child had he dreamed of the title? He never thought… 

He held the uniform up, transfixed. Wide shoulders, slim fit, long V-neck. It was incredible.

He should be elated. His father was the only one that could officially bestow the rank of Barbarossa. The uniform meant his father was proud of him, even if it was nearing seven long years since he last saw the man. But… 

His face fell. He wanted it _so bad._ Even if his Fódlan allies wouldn’t know the significance, it was something he wanted to show off. Something he wanted to be proud of. But it wouldn’t fit him. It wouldn’t hide his condition. He wanted to scream how it wasn’t fair— but then, when was life ever fair to him?

“I can’t wear this,” he murmured to himself. Something bitter and dejected curled in his chest.

“Don’t say that. You’ve more than earned this.”

Claude swallowed thickly. He had forgotten Nader for the moment. He set the clothes back in the box, flashing Nader a grin. “Hah, I suppose I should send my thanks to my old man.”

Nader’s brow furrowed. “I’ll admit, I thought you’d be more excited.” Of course Nader could see right through his forced smile.

Claude waved a hand. “I’m just tired. Internally I’m jumping for joy. But I did ask you to come for a reason.”

Nader sighed and sank into the chair opposite of Claude. “Gah, somehow you manage to drain the fun out of everything. You’ve matured well— a little too well. But! Let’s get down to business, kiddo. Or should I call you ‘Claude the Undying’? That’s got an oddly familiar ring to it.”

Claude leveled Nader with a flat stare.

“Yeesh. Still not a fan of that nickname huh.”

“Your forces?” Claude cut to the chase. He found himself doing that a lot recently. “Will they be able to make it by the deadline?”

Nader nodded. “Yes, there won’t be any issues there. Your plan was watertight— and that Holst fellow! To think, after all these years of fighting, I never knew he could beat me in an arm wrestling match! He couldn’t out drink me though! Hah, the amount you’ve managed to accomplish while chained to this desk is astounding.”

Claude hummed his thanks. He shuffled through the stacks of papers on his desk, pulling out two letters. “I know it’s a bit below your paygrade, but I’ll need you to play delivery man for me again.”

Nader shook his head. “Pah, I hope you know you’re wasting my potential here! Only for you, kiddo.”

Claude jerked a thumb at the half-opened package. “And for my father, apparently. That’s actually who this letter is for— the other’s for mom. Only after we take Fort Merceus though. Not before.”

Nader raised an eyebrow. “You’re having me deliver letters to your parents? You haven’t had contact with them in seven years. Why now?”

“Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my twilight years.”

“Twilight years? Hah! Oh, that’s rich. Wait till you hit my age.”

“Ahah, I’ve still got a few centuries before then.” _Or rather, never._ Nader wouldn’t be teasing him if he knew the letters he held were his goodbyes.

“I ought to tie you to a horse for that comment,” Nader gave a good natured punch at Claude’s shoulder. Nader frowned, his fist sinking into nothing but padding. _Damn!_ Nader moved to grip his shoulder, but Claude ducked to the side. The movement was awkward, practically shouting that he had something to hide.

“Bit tender there. I broke my collarbone a few days ago.” But Nader knew him. Nader had watched him grow up— if anyone knew when he was making an excuse, it was Nader. Usually, Nader let his fibs go. Usually, Nader didn’t press.

“Kiddo. _Khalid._ What’s wrong?”

Claude knew his smile turned sour. Bitter. He darted his eyes to the side. He couldn’t look at Nader. “I’m tired. That’s all. This war is grinding at me. That’s all.”

"When was the last time you slept?" Nader's voice was soft. Claude still flinched. He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. He wasn't sure how long it had been anyways. He hadn't slept since his nap post-emotional breakdown with Seteth. Before that... weeks, maybe?

Nader clapped his hand down on Claude’s shoulder. His hand sunk down, gripping tight. Nader’s eyebrows hit his hairline when he squeezed nothing but padding and cotton filler. Claude jerked back, but he was caught in Nader’s grip. Rather, his clothes were caught.

“Kiddo, did you lose your arm?!”

Claude brought his hands up to tug at Nader’s grip. “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”

Nader wasn’t letting go. “Where’s your shoulder?” His grip tightened until finally he hit resistance. Where Nader’s hand should have come into contact with thick muscle, he only felt Claude’s emaciated bones.

Nader let go, but Claude knew it wasn’t a victory. His lips slid into a hard line. He brought a calloused hand to Claude’s chin. No doubt he could see the gauntness that makeup couldn’t conceal. But there was one thing playing in Claude’s favor:

“Your eyes…”

People were always drawn to his eyes more than his cheekbones. Explaining that his eyes glowed was easier than explaining he was on his deathbed. It was easier now that his glowing eyes weren’t a secret.

He was saved by a knock at his door. Nader withdrew his hand. “Enter.”

Hilda, blessed Hilda, came to his rescue. “Oh, am I interrupting anything?”

“Not at all. Hilda, this is the retainer I’m sure you’ve heard oh so much about: Nardel. Nardel, this is Hilda Valentine Goneril.”

Nader snapped back to his usual cheerful self. He thrust out a hand to shake. “Goneril, huh? Related to the legendary general Holst?”

Hilda sat down the tray she carried, (ugh, almost certainly his lunch. She brought him that disgusting milk mixture every two hours). She met Nader’s strong grip with a lazy one of her own. “Mm, yes, that’s my dear brother.”

Claude felt a tickle at his throat. He let Nader and Hilda converse, turning back to the work on his desk.

He swallowed but the tickle only grew.

He pulled out one of his many handkerchiefs and coughed. He coughed a few times. Wet, full body coughs.

He wiped his lips, clearing his throat.

Hilda and Nader were staring at him.

“Apologies. I might be coming down with a cold.”

Hilda would know his excuse was complete bullshit— in all the years she’d known him he’d never once gotten sick. Nader didn’t look convinced either. Neither of them called his bluff though, and that was what mattered.

After an awkward pause they went back to a stilted conversation. Claude glanced down at the handkerchief he still held, eyebrows raising as he took note of the silver residue.

He was reminded of the time a few years back when he’d been poisoned.

He hadn’t been injured. Hadn’t been hurt. He hadn’t even eaten recently, so it couldn't be poison. Why did spit out silver now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to being shorter chapters, next chapter should be out within a week. Sorry this one took me longer than usual to push out. This fic is 95% finished, but now I'm running into those 5% placeholder sections that I haven't written yet lol


	17. Withered Body

Claude peered down into the silvery pool. Two green dots reflected back at him, the only lights in the otherwise pitch black room. He uncorked the empty flask in his hands, carefully dipping it into the fluid.

This wasn’t his only vat of the stuff. There was a vat of it at his estate in Deirdru. He even had a small vat hidden at the Goneril's estate. He had vials of it hidden all over, emergency stashes just in case. It seemed wrong to just let it all go to waste, especially when the price of producing it was killing him.

Sometimes, Claude wondered if he should be doing more. He wondered if he should bottle it all up and supply the troops. At this point he had quite the stock. How many lives could his bile save? Hundreds? Thousands?

Despite the terrifyingly impressive supply, Claude rarely used it. It hadn’t been an easy decision to come to. He let the stuff stew in hidden corners. It didn’t  _ seem _ to have any terrible side effects like he had feared, but he couldn’t be certain. The silvery scars it left were unnatural. Beyond that, it made faith magic completely inert along the scar tissue. He had to wonder if Almyran staff healing would still work… 

The silvery fluid came from some sort of crest-related nonsense. That alone was more than enough to be cautious with it. Memories of Miklan or of the Empire’s use of demonic beasts, were all that he needed to know anything revolving around crests needed to be treated carefully. Was it possible to overdose on the stuff? What would happen with repeated exposure?

He didn’t want it falling into the Empire’s hands either. He didn’t know the specifics of their crest-related experiments, but he knew none of it was good. They had conducted terrible experiments, both Remire and with Lysithea. Claude refused to be indirectly responsible for supplying the Empire with their next step into demonic weapons.

And maybe a part of him was wary. A selfish survival instinct of his screamed that if people knew  _ he _ produced the ‘miracle’ substance, they would lock him up and milk him for all he was worth. 

Still, there were situations where he found himself dipping into the forbidden supply. Usually it was to refill one of his companion’s empty vials. He always dreaded seeing those empty vials.

Lorenz, of course, had been the first. Back before he fully understood the potential healing ability. Claude was relieved he hadn’t needed to refill the noble’s vial yet. He didn’t want to test what would happen with repeat exposure to the substance. If he was going to test it, as ruthless as it was, he would prefer it to be on someone that wasn’t a friend.

Linhardt had used his vial early in the war, not long after he took refuge with Lysithea. The Empire had not been happy with his defection. Linhardt had never given Claude the full details, but he knew enough. Captured with magic-suppressants on his wrists, they had cut his hamstrings. After crippling their prisoner, the imperials had grown lax assuming Linhardt wouldn’t be able to run away. Linhardt still had the silvery scars along the back of his legs.

Hilda had a long silvery cut along her neck, digging into her collarbone. She never told Claude where she received the wound, but he had a sinking feeling he knew. It was an axe wound after all.

Leonie had proudly shown off the long silvery slash down her side. It started just below her armpit and ran all the way down to her hip. It was the most grievous wound any of them had received. Leonie claimed it was a ‘betrayal’ from a mercenary group she had run with. 

Lysithea had a long spindly lightning scar down her back. The sort of thing that should have caused permanent nerve damage at best, death at worst. It was good to know the silver liquid could heal magic damage just as well as physical.

Ignatz had received a deep arrow wound during a skirmish. The arrow had sunk into his lung. It would have been a painful death of drowning in his own blood.

He knew Marianne had used her vial. She had asked him to refill it after all. At first he had assumed she had used it on someone else, but the slow shake of her head proved him wrong. For once in his life, he hadn’t pried.

And now he was about to use the stuff on the last Golden Deer. He corked the filled flask.

He wondered how different his friends' lives would have been without him. If he had just stayed in Almyra, never woken his crest in the first place… what then? House Riegan would have fallen to the wayside with the death of his grandfather. With House Gloucester at the head of the round table… would there have even been a fight with the Empire? Maybe the Empire would have taken the Alliance with ease. Maybe none of his friends would have been hurt in the first place.

Or maybe the Alliance would have fought until the bloody end. Maybe all of his companions would have received deadly wounds without any miracle-save from him. In that case, they’d all be dead. He tried not to think about what-ifs.

He left the dark room, the false wall easing shut behind him. Linhardt had been the one to show him the hidden place. Just out of the way enough that none would ever stumble onto it by accident. With how many twisting passages were under Garreg Mach, Claude felt safe storing it there.

His strides felt like lead as he traveled the unlit tunnels to the surface.

He entered the infirmary. Flayn had done her best to make Raphael as comfortable as possible. She hadn’t healed the deep burn wound yet. That was to be Claude’s job this time. 

“Is he awake?” Claude asked the healer.

“Sure am,” Raphael grunted, still trying to put a pep to his words despite his obvious pain.

“This might not work,” Claude warned him as he approached the bed. “We can close the wound with faith magic. It would be safer.”  _ Hah, _ Claude never thought he’d be saying  _ faith magic _ was safe. Five years had changed things. Five years and he had not seen a single horrific failed heal. When faith magic failed, it just didn’t do anything. It was still difficult for him to wrap his mind around. Back in Almyra, if a healer messed up— 

But he wasn’t in Almyra, he reminded himself.

Raphael cracked a pained smile. “I won’t be able to fight as good if we do that though, right?”

“Yeah.” Faith magic might not mess up like Staff healing could, but there was so much less it could fix. “This might not work either,” Claude repeated. “Might make it worse.”

“It’s okay. I trust you. These are better odds, yeah? Don’t worry so much.”

Claude nodded, then remembered Raphael wouldn’t be able to see him. “I’ve been told this’ll hurt.”

Raphael huffed a laugh. “Already hurts. At least with your pain, I’ll know it’s healing.”

Claude carefully unwrapped the bandages over Raphael’s eye. He couldn’t hide his wince at the sight. A long burn blistered across his eye. Under normal circumstances, Raphael would never see out of the eye again. The eye wasn’t even there anymore. Even Almyran healing would be hard-pressed to fix it. Not impossible, but it would take a master to even try.

“You might want to bite down on this,” Claude murmured, placing a thick piece of leather between Raphael’s teeth.

He poured the silver.

He was glad he didn’t get nightmares anymore.

In the end of it all, Raphael passed out. After it was all over, Flayn fussed over Raphael. The eye had regrown, just as he assumed it would. Whether Raphael would be able to see out of it, Claude had no idea.

Claude slumped in the chair by Raphael’s bed. He wondered if this was what healers in his homeland went through. It was agonizing to be forced to wait and see if his remedy worked. To wait and see if his remedy backfired.

Flayn rested a hand on his shoulder. “Have faith, Claude. He will be fine.”

_ Hah. Faith. _ The only thing he had ever put his  _ faith _ in was Teach, and even then he couldn’t fully come clean to them.  _ Faith. _ What a ridiculous thing. “I don’t know how you do it,” he found himself murmuring.

“Do what?”

Claude made a nonsensical gesture with his hands. He wasn’t even sure what he meant. “This. Having faith. How can you just… believe everything will work out? That’s not how life works.”

Flayn was silent for a moment. “Faith isn’t about believing everything will work out, Claude. Were that the case, the Goddess would have no followers. Life has a way of taking.”

Claude winced at the sadness in her voice. He remembered with a start that Flayn wasn’t  _ just _ Flayn. She was Saint Cethleanne as well. She was a Nabatean, just like Seteth and Macuil. She was very old and had experienced the genocide of her people. He’d known that… it just hadn’t hit him until now.

“I have faith in those around me. I know everyone is trying their best. I have faith that together, we will pull through.”

“Trying isn’t always good enough.”  _ Claude _ wouldn’t pull through, after all. He wasn’t going to last, no matter how much he was fighting against his failing body. “What happens to your faith when those around you fail?”

“I help them up and together we move forward.”

“And if they’re dead?”

“I move forward for both of us, then.”

Claude winced. “Sorry. That was callous of me.” He rested his chin on his palm, staring at Raphael’s slumbering body. “Must be nice. Having faith.”

“You say that as if you have none.”

He huffed. “Flayn. Have you  _ ever _ seen me at church service? The time Lorenz dragged me there back during school doesn’t count.”

“The Goddess is not the only place you can put your faith. Do you not have faith in your allies? That they will pull through for you?”

He was silent. How could he explain to Flayn that he  _ didn’t. _ For every plan he devised, he had backups layered on backups. He had contingencies for every possible scenario. Many, many of those scenarios involved his allies failing him. If someone fell in battle. If someone wasn’t as strong as he assumed. If someone betrayed him. If they  _ all _ betrayed him.

Flayn squeezed his hand. 

“It’s not as if I can read minds. I can’t  _ know _ what people will do. I can only guess. How am I supposed to put faith in something I can’t know?”

“That’s what faith is.”

“Ah. Right.” _ Right. _ And that’s why he hated faith magic. To let go of control, to  _ hope _ the end result was positive… he was incompatible with that kind of thinking. The years he had been submerged in Fódlan’s way of thinking couldn’t errode the world’s harsh truths that had been etched into his bones as a child. To let go of that kind of control could only spell disaster.

Faith magic was impressive, he would concede that. But it was so limited. It couldn’t halt death. It couldn’t fix everything.

Faith didn’t follow rules he understood. It was so different from Staff healing. He  _ knew _ what happened when someone tried to heal without knowing every small detail. It ended with disaster. It ended with death. It ended with agony. It ended with cancer, with tumors, with flesh and bone twisted into unnatural abominations.

He stared at the silver scarring along Raphael’s eye.

Maybe that was why every time he used the silvery fluid he felt like he was damning his friends. 

When Raphael woke half an hour later, both eyes opened. One eye was gold, the other shining silver. Both eyes tracked perfectly, his vision just as good as before.

Claude wondered how Raphael or Flayn or anyone could have faith in him. Not when he didn’t even have faith in himself.

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“Claude… You’re still losing weight.”

He sighed. “How? Marianne, look at me.” He gestured to himself. “What’s there left to lose?”

“Your organs, Claude.” Marianne bit her lip, not meeting his eyes. “When the body reaches the level of starvation that yours has, it starts to break down organs.”

“Huh. That sounds bad.”

“Claude… I don’t think— you don’t have much—”

“I know.” 

“You should tell the others.”

Claude shook his head. “Absolutely not. We leave for Fort Merceus tomorrow. If we win, we’ll be at Enbarr within the week. I can’t afford to distract everyone.”

Her eyebrows conveyed her disapproval. “Your life isn’t a distraction. You’re more important than that.”

“A distraction is a distraction. Don’t worry— I’ve set plenty of things in motion. If I don’t make it to Enbarr, I’ll still be with everyone through the spirit of my schemes. Failure is not an option.”

_ “Claude.” _ She pursed her lips. She looked down at her clasped hands, then clenched her eyes shut. She took a deep breath. _“I don’t give a damn about the war!”_

Claude jerked back as if she slapped him.

“I mean, I do care. I’d rather we win. But your life is more important to me. I’m not worried that you’ll die and leave the war hanging— I’m worried because you’re dying. You’re my friend.”

Claude felt his lips part, but no sound escaped him.

“You’ve worked so hard for all of us. I just— I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you’re dying. I don’t understand why nothing helps. I don’t understand how the Goddess could allow such a cruel thing.” Tears shimmered in her eyes.

“Don’t go losing faith on account of me, Marianne.”

She gave him a wretched smile. “Claude, you don’t even believe in Her. Shouldn’t you be happy I’m having doubts?”

“No. It’s not a weakness to have faith in a higher power. If you can find comfort in the Goddess, I want you to keep that. Maybe I'm even a little envious.” He gave a small chuckle. “Hey, maybe that’s why I’m dying. Maybe the Goddess heard all my blasphemy and decided to teach me a lesson.”

“Please don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry. You’re strong, you know that?” He stared at the wall behind Marianne. “I’m not strong enough to put my faith in anyone.” He wondered where he would go when he died, if he went anywhere. He wondered if the Seiros faith was right or if the Almyrans were right. Maybe neither of them were right. Maybe when he died, he would just vanish.

“You’re the strongest person I know, Claude. The kindest too.”

“Now that doesn’t sound right.” He spared her a grin. “Me? Kind? Did you forget the time I dosed dinner with food poisoning back in our school days?”

“Yes, I remember that. I also remember that the only ones that got sick were the students that made Lysithea cry the day before.”

“I mean, revenge isn’t exactly kindness…”

Marianne’s eyes dropped to her lap. “You don’t deserve to die, Claude.”

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ve made peace with it. Sure, I’d rather stick around. Of course I would. But I’ve known I’ve been dying for a long time. I’m just happy I made it this far.”

Marianne shook her head. “Claude, you don’t need to put on a brave face for me. I know what it looks like when someone is at peace with dying. You’ve accepted it, but it’s okay to be afraid.”

“You're mistaken. I’m confident that everyone will be fine without me— maybe I couldn’t see my dream with my own eyes, but I’m certain it’ll come to pass. I’m not afraid to die.”

“Claude, when we were in the academy I prayed for the Goddess to take me away every day. I know what it looks like to have accepted death.” Her eyes were piercing as she met his gaze. He looked away. “You are not a man that is ready to die.”

Claude swallowed thickly. He sighed. “I know. Please let me keep lying. I won’t have to convince myself much longer anyways.”

Then he started coughing, spitting out a mouthful of silver. No crest use. No injury. No reason.

He didn’t understand.


	18. Dying Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fort Merceus time, bby!

One last hurrah.

His body was on its last leg, but he couldn’t feel it. He felt strong. He felt alive. He was brimming with life.

He would live his last days to the fullest.

Claude led his force of Almyrans to attack the other side of Fort Merceus. A part of him that he thought dead and buried was so happy to be fighting alongside the score of Almyran elites. It was a balm to the little homesick ache in his soul that he refused to acknowledge. What he wouldn’t give to be clad in Barbarossa colors.

The Almyran forces took over the corner of the stronghold easily. Walls didn’t matter much to an army of wyvern riders, after all. Their entry point secured, Claude directed the Almyrans to disperse and aid the Fódlan soldiers. Claude, on the other hand, dismounted. Whether he lived or died in this battle, he was going to die soon. Might as well go out in a blaze of glory, he figured. It would be great for his public image. He wasn’t about to subject his wyvern to that.

From the skies he had seen a platoon of soldiers that would crash into the flank of the other Golden Deer. Hefting Begalta, he charged to intercept the group. They weren’t far from him.

Nocking three arrows at a time, he launched a volley into the unsuspecting platoon. Usually, a volley meant raining down so many arrows that accuracy didn’t matter. Claude didn’t have the numbers to do a proper volley. Even with his skill, he wouldn’t have been able to fire so many arrows with accuracy— but with Begalta aiding his aim? By the time the twenty-something soldiers realized they were under fire it was already too late. Every single arrow met its mark.

He heard a peel of laughter behind him. Turning, he realized a handful of Almyrans had followed him. _“Stars damn me, I’ve never seen such shooting! Joining this fight was worth it if only for watching that!”_ one of the men told another.

There was a roar of a beast in the distance. His eye caught one of the wyvern riders falling out of the sky. He winced as he realized the Almyran forces didn’t have any experience fighting demonic beasts.

He started off at a run. Turning a corner, he came into a large courtyard with the demonic beast, as well as scores of Empire soldiers to boot. At least two hundred enemy soldiers, maybe more. He wasted no time shooting off a few volleys. Unlike before, this time there were too many for him to pick off. A handful of imperials charged him. He slung Begalta over his shoulder and brandished her sword.

He readied himself for the first enemy to strike— too focused on the oncoming ground forces to notice the rain of arrows until they were already falling on him. He cursed, throwing up a hand as multiple arrows met their mark. He hissed a breath as a few lodged themselves past his armor. Three sank past his skin— though nearly a dozen got caught in his padded armor. The tufts of cotton in his outfit that kept him looking not-skeleton-shaped were excellent at catching the arrowheads before they dug too deep.

He had no time to yank the arrows out of himself. He brought his blade forward to parry. He was surrounded before he knew it, lethal steel coming for him at every angle. This fight wasn’t like his battle against bandits years ago. These were trained soldiers with the finest imperial equipment. He was one man against hundreds.

He twisted past two strikes, caught one on his armor, and felt a fourth bite into his thigh. He heard a faint shout from somewhere above— something yelled in Almyran, but he couldn’t hear it clearly. 

Claude swung his sword in a great arc, beheading the man in front of him. Begalta’s sword _was_ an executioner’s sword, after all.

Two more men replaced the fallen one.

More arrows rained down on him. Four more met his flesh and a great many more stuck into his clothes. He dodged a sword strike and retaliated, sharp metal disarming the man. Literally.

He cried out as an axe buried into his back. He fell to one knee with the force of it.

Begalta was buzzing behind his ear. At her nudging, he raised his sword up to block a strike aimed at his neck. He spat a glob of blood onto the ground. The axe inched closer to his neck from where he held it parried. Despite that, his arm did not shake. He grinned.

Silver light lit up behind him. He gave a shout and surged forward.

_They’d thought him beat. They hadn’t expected his second wind._

He became a whirlwind, swinging and slashing with abandon. There were too many of them to dodge, too many to defend himself. So he stopped defending himself entirely.

He went on the offensive, using his offhand arm as a makeshift shield. His crest was a permanent light behind him, bathing his enemies in a silvery glow before he cut them down. Blocking attacks towards him was a waste of time he could better use to be dwindling numbers.

The fire in his veins numbed any pain. Horror washed over the face of an enemy swordsman as he caught their blade on his arm. The Killer’s Edge cut past his armor and dug into his arm, but it couldn’t cut through his bone. 

He only noticed the arrows now as they clattered on each other as he moved. Most of them hadn’t even met flesh, stuck in his armor. They fell on him like rain— annoying but harmless. 

He cut a swath through the enemy forces, slowly making progress to where the demonic beast thrashed. Where enemies at first swarmed him to take him down with superior numbers, now he found himself being forced to initiate. A circle was forming around him as the imperial forces lost their nerves.

He laughed. His body brimmed with fire— he was stuck full of arrows, with the occasional dagger, sword, and even a single hand-axe within him. His crest broiled with healing energy, but it could do nothing when something was in the way. Instead, the power seemed to build up inside of him. He hoped he wouldn’t explode.

He was a walking corpse, but he’d never felt so _alive._

_“King’s Honor!”_ An Almyran shout came. _“King’s Honor! King’s Honor!”_ More voices joined the first. Wyverns swooped down and began devastating the unnerved imperials. Despite being vastly outnumbered, the Almyrans slaughtered the Empire soldiers.

He wondered if they would give him a title for this like they had for Esfandi the Tempest.

Claude danced from enemy to enemy. There had been hundreds in the courtyard originally— how many remained now? Corpses outnumbered the living.

Finally he came to the demonic beast. The thing roared, seeming transfixed on Claude as he approached.

He sheathed his sword and pulled out Begalta herself.

It thrashed out a tail, hitting multiple Imperial soldiers as it did so. In the world’s most deadly game of jump-rope, Claude leapt over the tail. He fired off two shots midair, managing a third as he touched back down on the ground.

He kept moving. He didn’t stop for a moment. The earth beneath his feet shook with each missed blow from the monster. He peppered the beast with arrow after arrow, slowly whittling away at the shield.

It didn’t take much time before a section of the beast’s shield shattered, leaving it vulnerable. From there he fired off a Fallen Star, finishing it off.

Claude couldn’t hold back his satisfied smirk. He didn’t even feel winded. The battlefield was filled with screams of Imperials and war cries of Almyrans. The remaining soldiers of the Empire were scattering. He couldn’t see what was happening on the other side of the fort, but he had to have faith that Teach and the rest were doing fine. Glancing over, he saw numerous Fódlandi soldiers gaping at him from the cleared ballista platforms. He shot them a two-fingered salute and was greeted with cheering.

He couldn’t see any of the Golden Deer in their ranks.

Maybe he should check on them, just in case.

He brought his fingers to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. His wyvern quickly responded. He was on her back before she fully came to a stop, lifting back into the sky. He smiled to himself as he saw Teach chasing down the Death Knight.

But then Teach was shouting out orders to evacuate.

At first Claude thought he must have misheard. _Evacuate?_ Fort Merceus was all but crumbling under their assault. This wasn’t just a success, this was an overwhelming victory. A _slaughter._ It was exactly what they needed for morale. Retreating would waste everything this victory was about to buy them.

But Teach wouldn’t have ordered the retreat without a good reason. The Fódlandi forces held the same trust he did in Teach, responding to their order.

It was his job to get the Almyran forces to leave. Technically they were under Nader’s command. Technically Claude held no sway over their orders. In reality, he’d already proven himself to them.

The only issue was that his order was to _retreat._ Almyrans didn’t _retreat_ after a King’s Mark sacrificed themself on the battlefield. Nevermind the fact that Claude wasn’t dying (well, not in the way they assumed), it was one of the most dishonorable acts possible to abandon a battle like this one.

He gave the order to retreat. There were a few moments of conflict. He doubted even Nader would have been able to successfully order a retreat. But Claude was the King’s Mark himself. It would be disrespectful to _not_ honor his (assumed) dying commands.

_Finally_ he got the Almyran troops to retreat. Not a moment too soon. A great beam of light struck the fort.

Obliterated. Destroyed. Claude couldn’t believe it. The fort was gone. Flat out erased. He sat on his wyvern facing the wreckage, dumbstruck. He took solace in the fact that the entire army— Almyra and Fódlan alike— were just as flabbergasted as he was.

_The fort was gone._

The consequences slammed into him. They would have to retreat back to Garreg Mach. It would delay their assault on the Empire’s capital. That would put them back an entire month.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, he knew he would never see the end of the war. He wouldn’t make it to Enbarr. He didn’t have enough time left.

He pasted his leader mask back on. He couldn’t afford to show weakness.

He landed, his crest still at his back like a beacon. The Almyran warriors that battled with him gave him a proper warrior’s salute. The kind they gave to their king. The kind they gave to dying a King’s Mark. A few men shuffled over to him, their sharp eyes on Claude’s every movement. No doubt prepared to give proper ceremony to his corpse as soon as he dropped, which to them would surely be any second now.

He cocked a grin. A spat a mouthful of blood and silver onto the ground. In a language he hadn’t spoken in years, he declared _“I’m not done yet.”_

The warriors cheered. At his urging they finally dispersed, heading into the camp that had formed outside of the ruins of Merceus.

As he entered the camp, he couldn’t help the way his smile turned genuine. He saw soldiers of Fódlan and of Almyra patching each other up. Talking with one another (or at least attempting to through the language barrier). Sharing hidden stashes of alcohol. Trading rations.

The ball was rolling. He wished he’d been able to do more, but it would have to be enough.

Gasps and hushed whispers followed him as he walked through the camp. It was careless of him. He was riddled with wounds. He was full of more arrows than most had in their quivers. At least two arrows visibly stuck out of his neck. There was a half-broken lance still in his side, a sword through his hip, and a handful of daggers still jammed into him. His uniform was ripped and covered in blood, both his own blood and that of others. The only thing hiding his skeletal body from the gaps in his armor was the copious reams of stuffing.

To top it all off, his crest still blazed at his back. He had no doubt that the usual subtle glow of his eyes now blazed just as they had back in Ailell. 

His steps did not falter. His gait was the same as always— confident, healthy, youthful. His smile was real.

He heard the whispers. A few even dropped to their knees as he passed.

He made his way to Teach’s tent. He savored the rare expression of shock that split their face. He wanted to sink down onto one of the makeshift chairs in the tent, but he was too full of projectiles to manage it. He eased himself onto the ground instead.

He began to methodically tease the weapons out of his body. Most of the arrowheads were caught in his clothes rather than his skin. Any that cut into his legs and arms came out easily— there was no meat on his bones for the sharp metal to be caught in. It was only the ones caught in his chest, torso, and neck that were giving him difficulty— and there were a lot of those. What he assumed to be only two in his neck was actually a total of five.

Teach sat by his side and helped. After each object came free, his skin healed around it. The process was slow. The Deer slowly filed into the tent, prepared for receiving orders. At least he got the small trickle of satisfaction at their shock— though it wasn’t worth the looks of horror that went with it. He expected questions. He expected anger. He expected yelling.

Instead they crowded around him, helping him carefully ease weapons out of his body. No one said so much as a word. He knew they could see peeks of his wasted body through red cotton. They couldn’t see the full picture, though, and that had to count for something.

The experience reminded him of his childhood. Once he had ‘fallen’ into a pit filled with cactus (he’d been pushed). His parents and Nader had sat in a circle around him and eased the little prickles from his skin. Funny how that had hurt far more than this.

Last to enter was Nader. Despite the impressive pile of sharp objects by Claude’s side, there were still more inside him when Nader entered the tent. The man’s face was grim. Unlike everyone else, Nader didn’t look surprised. He knew Nader hadn’t seen him on the battlefield, but Almyrans talked. No doubt Claude was the talk of the camp for them.

“I know this is the command tent, but could I get a few minutes of privacy?” Claude asked his companions. He tilted his head to Teach. “Not much needs to be discussed anyways. We need to pull back to Garreg Mach. You don’t need me to take care of that.”

They all nodded and filed out. No one even asked him how he knew the famous Almyran General.

Nader sat directly in front of him. Very carefully, mindful of the arrows still in Claude, Nader pulled Claude into his lap. He wrapped him in a careful hug. “I thought I taught you to run away from arrows, not towards them,” Nader whispered. It was strange to hear the boisterous man so quiet. 

“You also told me that trick wouldn’t work on real enemies. Turns out anyone is surprised when their opponent shrugs off an arrow wound, not just you.”

Nader ran a hand through Claude’s hair. “You’re still alive. You’ve always been such a bright spark. The King’s Mark doesn’t protect after the battle is finished. Your mother’s Fódlan magic is keeping you alive, isn’t it.”

Claude nodded into Nader’s chest. He knew his crest was still bright at his back, and would be until all of his wounds were closed up. He should probably focus on that, but what did it matter? What was a few more hours off his life in the coming days?

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.” It wasn’t a question. Claude nodded anyways. “How long do you have?”

“I’m not going to die tonight, don’t worry.” Probably.

“And tomorrow?”

“...”

Nader clutched Claude tighter. 

“I think I’ve still got a couple of days left in me. Maybe a week. Possibly two.”

“Is there anything you want me to tell your parents? They’re proud of you, you know. So proud. They love you so much kiddo.”

“Those letters I gave you, those are my goodbyes.”

“You knew.”

Claude carefully shucked off one of his gloves. He clutched Nader’s hand in his own withered one. “I’ve been dying for years. I knew. Between the King’s Mark and the crest, it’s too much for my body.” He looked up, maintaining eye contact. “Don’t tell them that. I don’t want them to blame themselves. Let them think it was the King’s Mark.”

“If that’s what you want.”

For a moment Claude let himself drift in the present. He ignored the heat ghosting along his skin, the fire burning through his veins. He closed his eyes and nestled against Nader’s chest, the same way he did as a child. He listened to Nader’s steady heartbeat. It was odd, listening to a heartbeat that wasn’t Begalta’s. For a moment, he pretended he was still just a boy with his entire life ahead of him.

“You’ll be remembered as a great warrior,” Nader murmured into his hair. “The men are already singing your tale. Both the skill you showed on the battlefield and the grit to keep moving after.”

“It’s not what I wanted to be remembered for,” Claude sighed, “but at least it’s something.” He pulled back. His instincts told him to paste a smile back on his face, to assure Nader that he was okay. But he didn’t want to. He was _so tired_ of pretending he was okay. So he didn’t. “I should probably get the rest of these arrows out. Lend me a hand?”

“Of course. Of course.”

They worked in silence. Nader was gentle, as gentle as ripping an arrowhead out of his skin could be at least. It didn’t really hurt though, the pain devoured by the hungry fire still lacing his body.

“You should come home,” Nader finally murmured. “On wyvern-back we can have you back at the capital in two days or less. If you think you can make the trip…”

Claude’s heart twisted. He didn’t want to die in Fódlan. He wanted to see his home one last time. When he left Almyra all those years ago he always thought he’d be back. When he left, he hadn’t said _goodbye,_ he had said _I’ll see you later._

He didn’t want to die here.

“I have too much to do. I can’t abandon my responsibilities.” Couldn’t abandon the Alliance. Couldn’t abandon Teach. Couldn't abandon the Deer.

“Whatever happened to the little boy that ran away at the drop of a hat?”

“He learned that no one can run forever.”

Claude tugged out the last arrowhead. A few had gotten stuck under his skin, but nowhere vital. Marianne had assured him that they would take them out at a later date, but Claude didn’t care. His wounds all sealed, the silver illuminating the tent died out. He shuddered, the heat punched out of his lungs. He would still be fine for a few more hours though, he would be fine until the vomit came. Still, his shoulders slumped and his eyelids drooped. A chill crept over him.

“I should get back to the troops.” He looked up to meet Nader’s eyes and was punched in the gut again as he noticed the man’s silent tears still falling. The raw grief on his face hurt to look at.

Nader didn’t tell him to rest. Didn’t tell him to take it easy. He was grateful for that. “I’ll be by your side, kiddo.”

The idea of Nader crying by his deathbed didn’t sit well with him. He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I think it would be best if you took your troops and went home. Put in a good word about Teach to dad and mom, will you?”

“You don’t want me to stay?”

Claude cobbled together a smile. _I don’t want to be tempted. I don’t want to remember that I’ll never see home again. I don’t want to remember I’ll never see mom and dad ever again. I don’t want to watch you cry._ “I think it’s best if you don’t.”

Claude hauled himself to his feet. He turned his back to Nader. He pulled his mask back on, his usual smile feeling heavy against his lips. He ran his hands down his ruined uniform, adjusting it so the peeking tufts of bloodied cotton covered any exposed skin. He stepped out of the tent and into the sunlight.

He was greeted by cheers, by whispers and prayers. Morale was poor, but his presence turned the mood around. 

_Undying Claude_ was leading them. They might have lost the fort, but they wouldn’t lose the war with _Saint Claude_ leading them. Not with their _Master Tactician_ at the helm.

He didn’t correct the whispers.

Hours later, alone aside from Begalta, silver bile poured from him. Struggling not to drown, he could only feel bitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The night is impossibly dark. The sky is dark. The sky is empty. The stars have all died. They have always been dead. He shouts and screams and yells, and there is nothing there to hear him. There never was. He is alone._
> 
> _The dawn is far away. He knows he won't last the night. The dawn will come as it always does, but he knows he will not be there to greet it._
> 
> He wakes from his dream. _This time,_ he wakes from his dream. He wonders if he will wake from his dream next time. He doubts it. Dawn is so far away.


	19. Dying Corpse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judith gets a bit of a bad rap in this chapter, but that’s mostly just due to communication issues. She knows something’s up, but has next to no clue what, so she puts together her limited knowledge and comes to the only potential conclusion she can. Just wanted to clear that up because I fucking _love_ Judith and I don’t want anyone to think I’m hating on her.
> 
> Next chapter will be pretty soon, a few days tops. Originally it was going to be broken into 2 chapters, but I decided to have pity and condense it into one.

“Boy, where have you been? You’ve been slacking on your duties for three days straight! This isn’t the time to be playing games.” Her tone was rough, but Claude could hear a note of concern in her voice.

He scribbled his signature at the bottom of a document, setting it aside into his ‘done’ pile. “Don’t worry about it Judith.”

“Hey now, Claude’s been working real hard,” Hilda defended him. “Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

He hadn’t been working hard. He’d been sleeping for three days. After his (not so) little vomiting bout post-Merceus he had slipped into a coma.

“Mmhm. Tell that to the army’s morale. You think you can just disappear after such an event? You’re not a child anymore— you can’t just laze about! Have you even heard the rumors? Some of the army thinks you’re dead.”

“Pretty sure too much of the army is convinced Claude’s immortal to believe that rumor,” Hilda muttered.

Claude just smiled back at Judith. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Small mercies that Judith hadn’t seen him immediately after Merceus. She must have heard the rumors of his ‘injured’ state, but that didn’t mean much. Even the truth of the matter sounded like the sort of fantastical exaggerated rumor that people came up with.

Considering a lot of people had actually witnessed his ‘undying’ feat this time, though, he wasn’t having much luck stamping out rumors of his ‘Sainthood’ or ‘Holiness’. At Ailell he had mostly only been seen by a few groups of Kingdom soldiers. He’d only had a single sword in his gut as well. At Fort Mercues he knew he’d cut a far more terrifying figure embedded with an entire armory in his skin, and more than half the army witnessed his performance.

If it was happening to anyone else, he would be in stitches laughing at the irony of such an obvious heathen being so revered. 

“And the next time you vanish? This isn’t the first time you’ve left after a big skirmish or battle. You need to work more, boy.”

“He doesn’t. He’ll drive himself six-feet under at the rate he’s going.” Hilda spoke to Judith, but pointed her glare towards him. “Lady Judith, the war effort won’t matter at all if Claude keels over from exhaustion.”

_“He_ can speak for himself. Hilda, I believe you’re needed by the quartermaster. You’re dismissed.” She _was_ actually needed, so his excuse couldn’t be ignored. She shot him a mixed angry and worried glare before leaving.

“Having a lover’s quarrel? War’s not the best time for that.”

“Absolutely not.” She was his best friend. Even if he had harbored feelings for her (or for anyone else), he wouldn’t have been cruel enough to tell them. He was dying, after all. “She’s just been a bit upset at me recently. I hid something she thought she had a right to know— you know, my usual trust issues. She’ll get over it.”

Judith sighed, coming to sit on his desk. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so harsh on you. You’ve got a lot on your shoulders. If it weren’t for that bright spark in your eyes, I’d say this war has worn you thin.” _Hah, if only she knew._ “But duty is duty, and you can’t skirt the responsibilities that you’ve taken on. People are relying on you— a lot of people.”

“Mm. I know.”

“If you know, then stop slacking. How can I help?”

Claude cracked her a grin. “Want to be the grand Duke? That’d help me out plenty.”

Judith smacked the back of his head.

“I’m kidding!” Though if she wanted the position, it was hers. “Yeesh. I suppose there are a few things I could use your help with.” He shuffled through some of the papers on his desk. “The Alliance Lords are finally sending proper reinforcements. I’m trying to secure a few extra platoons. If you don’t mind, read these over and let me know what you think. As you can imagine, I’ve got a few dozen other things vying for my attention currently…” He handed her a few sheets.

“That’s what happens when you skip town for three days,” she muttered. “Very well. Let’s see what you’ve got here... “ She clucked her tongue. “You’re asking too much of Goneril, boy.”

Claude hummed, skimming another document. “Am I? The border can afford a reduced guard. After all, the Almyrans were a valuable ally at Merceus.”

“I’ll admit, I’m impressed you pulled that crazy stunt off. But one battle doesn’t change centuries of—”

_“And_ Holst Goneril is rather chummy with Almyra’s most renowned general. Currently, Holst is the man that needs to be convinced, not the rest of the Alliance.”

“Hmph. You’re the leader. Not sure why you want my eye if you’re going to ignore my advice.”

“Give me better advice and I’ll listen to it.” 

“Ungrateful brat. Let’s see what else you’ve got here.” He heard her shuffling through the other proposals he’d given her. “Hah, this is a good jab at Gloucester. I’ll give you credit here.”

He worked on some logistics in silence. Judith took her time scrutinizing his well-worded begging towards the nobility. She wasn’t giving him another tongue lashing, so that counted as a win.

He glared down at a proposed trade agreement with Almyra from a minor noble. On one hand, it was exactly the kind of thing he was hoping would come from his stunt at Merceus. On the other hand, the text was riddled with dehumanizing language and was a flat out unfair deal. Good that the nobility was beginning to consider Almyra as a trade partner; bad that they thought it necessary to employ massive amounts of troops as ‘insurance against thievery and other barbaric acts’ from the ‘savage foreigners’. The fees and taxes proposed for allowing ‘Almyran mongers’ to pass through to sell their ‘petty trinkets’ were outrageous. The reason given for such a high fee was to pay for the ‘damages that would no doubt arise from such uncivilized barbarians’. It was progress, at least. The fact that someone was considering Almyra as a trade partner at _all_ was huge progress. It just stung to see how much more work needed to be done (work he couldn’t help with). He scribbled a few lines onto his notes about a more fair agreement. He even tacked on an explanation about his reasonings, since Lorenz wouldn’t be able to actually ask him why the original proposal was so bad. He gave more in-depth details about what Almyra would and wouldn’t accept than he ever would have considered in the past. He even went so far as to jot down a few contacts of his across the border that dealt in exports. He made sure to pop in a few lighthearted quips as well. Wouldn’t want Lorenz getting teary-eyed reading all of the notes Claude was leaving for him.

He really did have a lot of paperwork to get through. He wasn’t too worried about it. He still had a few days left. Really, the biggest benefit of his crest was how it allowed him to go without sleep. He never would have been able to hold the Alliance together all these years without that edge. And now, it gave him double time to put his affairs in place. Forget being unkillable on the battlefield— as flashy as that was, it wasn’t half as useful as being able to stay awake for days or even weeks at a time.

“Boy. What am I looking at?”

He looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Is that about Ordelia? Their reinforcements are paltry, I know, but they don’t have the resources to give much more. I’m not going to keep pressing them.”

Judith shook her head, turning a paper for him to see. He hissed as he recognized his scribbled markings. He hadn’t meant to give _that_ to her. It was his recent mock-up battle plan for the assault on Enbarr. “When was the last time you slept? This is nonsensical.” She gestured to the rough map. “It would be wiser to split into two groups and attack from the north and the east.” That _would_ have been his plan if he would be around to join the fight. But he was planning for an army reeling with the loss of one of their two figureheads. Not that he could tell Judith that. He made to grab for the paper, but Judith held it out of his reach. She flipped it back over to eye at the contents. 

“It’s just a rough draft. I’m still working on it, between everything else.”

She gave him an odd look. “You already have battle plans drawn up. Did you forget you asked for my opinion on them before Merceus?”

“That was _before_ we lost the fort. There are adjustments that need to be taken into account.”

Her sharp eyes darted down to the paper. “And what exactly would cause such a diviation like… this…” She fell silent.

“Look, it’s not important at the moment. There are more vital things to prioritize—” 

_“Claude.”_ Her voice was ice. “What exactly,” she slapped the paper onto his desk, jabbing at his scribbled handwriting, “does _this_ mean?”

He kept his face blank as he realized what Judith was pointing to. It was the barebones of a speech he’d begun writing in the margins for Teach to give to the troops as they arrived at Enbarr. He wanted to set everyone up for success in his absence. 

He stared at the damning part of his notes. 

_‘We stand at the gates of Enbarr. Five long years of war come to an end today. Today, we end this bloody war. We fight today for those still with us, and for those absent. ((Mention Dimitri for the Kingdom troops, maybe?)) My dear friend* Claude brought us this far. His absence is keenly felt, but he did not leave us unprepared. Honor his memory on this day as we end this war. We fight for the peace he envisioned.’_

_((*Teach, feel free to use whatever endearment you want here ;) I know this’ll be hard to do on your own, but you have my full faith. You don’t need me to finish this conflict. If morale gets too low with my ‘disappearance’, feel free to invoke my name as much as you want. Guilt people into finishing the war if you have to. Never let it be said I wasn’t a master at manipulation— I’m so good at it I can do it from the other side! And hey, this is your daily reminder to drink some water and eat some food if you haven't. Take care, my friend.))_

“It’s just for a worse-case scenario, don’t worry so much. You know how I have plans for every possibility.”

Judith slammed her hand on his desk. “Oh really? Don’t play with me, boy. Your _‘disappearance’?!”_ Her eyes blazed with a cold fury unlike anything he’d ever seen from her. “This isn’t some _hypothetical._ Planning to fake your death and run away? You aren’t going to be here for the final assault, are you. Tell me I’m wrong.”

_Not ‘fake’ his death, no…_ His mouth felt dry. “Judith…” Nader’s grief-stricken face flickered in his memory. His mind flew through possible ways to throw her off the truth. He didn’t want to see the same look on Judith’s face. ‘Sadness’ and ‘Judith’ didn’t go together. “I—”

She snatched his cravat, jerking him forward. The aggressive gesture caught him off guard. “I _vouched_ for you. I’ve supported you, and _this_ is how you repay me?!” Her tone hissed into a whisper. “Do you care so little for those around you? You’re so willing to _abandon_ everything?”

She might as well have slapped him. “I— I’m not—!”

She shoved him back into his chair. _“Save it._ Flippant in your duties as you’ve always been, I thought you had more responsibility in you than this. To think, I was _proud_ of you.” She gave a bitter chuckle.

“You think I want this?” he hissed. “I don’t have a choice!”

“There’s always a choice.” Her eyes cut into him. “You’ve always had divided loyalties. But they were never divided at all, were they? You’ve done what you’ve set out to do, and now you’re leaving the pawns to fall from the board. You couldn’t even finish the war before running home to the _'other side'_ with your tail tucked between your legs, huh.”

He stared at her. “You think so little of me?” His voice held none of the hurt he felt.

“I’d love to be proven wrong. _Claude,_ tell me I’m wrong. Tell me the truth.” Her anger melted. “You vanish for days after every battle. Hell, you vanish all the time! You’ve been lining that professor of yours up as a figurehead above you for months. A _replacement._ I know about your 'duties' across the border. You came to the Alliance with a purpose. And you’ve fulfilled that purpose now that communications between Fódlan and Almyra are beginning to open for the first time in centuries. _Tell me I’m wrong,_ Claude.” Judith wasn’t a woman that begged, but this was the closest he’d ever seen her come to pleading.

She thought he was going home. She thought he was _literally_ leaving Fódlan. 

All he could feel in the moment was relief that she _didn’t know he was dying._ She’d find out in a few days, one way or another. Why tell her now? By waiting, he wouldn’t be forced to face the fallout.

He should tell her. It would be heartless to let her find out the truth only at the news of his passing.

“Everything will go smoothly in my absence,” is what he says. “My hands are tied. I have to leave soon. The Alliance doesn’t need me any longer.”

Judith’s face twisted. She wasn’t angry. She was disgusted. She looked down at him like he was dirt under her boot. She whirled on her heel and left his office.

Maybe it was selfish— it was _definitely_ selfish— and maybe it was a little cruel. But he didn’t want to see Judith’s grief. He’d rather anger and disappointment. 

He couldn’t blame her for the conclusion she came to. For someone that knew him uncomfortably well, she knew something was going on with him. Him skipping back to Almyra was more believable than him dying of an illness she had no knowledge of. It hurt a little that she thought he would just abandon the Alliance, but at the same time she wasn’t too off base. He planned to do that after the war in the first place. In Judith’s eyes, it must look like he was just leaving a month early.

He knew he could still rely on her, though. She would stick through to the end of the war even when he couldn’t. If not for him, then for the whole of the Alliance.

He reorganized some of the paperwork on his desk. He pulled out what he had been working on before he’d been interrupted— his will. It had been written for months, but he was revising a few bits here and there. 

He made sure to add a little extra to go to the Daphnel territory. Part of him wished he had more sentimental things to give away.  
  
  
  


* * *

_‘Where once I flew,_

_Now I fall._

_Inky darkness surrounds me,_

_Night’s cold embrace as I tumble._

_My back to the ground,_

_I face the sky._

_There are clouds,_

_The stars are covered._

_I turn away,_

_And face the ground._

_I see my end drawn near,_

_And I know my time has run out._

_The ground is at my fingertips._

_Not much longer now.’_

Claude twiddled with the quill in his hand. Poetry was a waste of his very limited time. Then again, it was _his_ time to waste how he pleased, wasn’t it? The secret romantic in him ached to write anything that _wasn’t_ dry or disingenuous letters. He’d been teasing Lorenz about his poetry collection for years, but Claude wasn’t any better deep down.

Not that anyone would ever come to know this side of Claude. The sudden thought struck him as sad. He’d spend his whole life hiding who he was. He should be glad he was so successful. Not that it had protected him in the end.

He wasn’t afraid anymore. He just felt sad.

At least, he mused, he’d be learning life’s final and greatest mystery soon. If he thought about it that way, death almost felt like an adventure. Almost, but not quite.

He dipped his quill into ink and let it hover over the page. There was one last word he ached to see.

خالد

_Khalid._

He smiled at the word. He let the ink dry. Then he lifted the page and lit the corner alight with the candle lighting his desk. He watched it until only ash was left.

It wouldn’t do for any of his friends to find out how melancholic he felt in his last moments. The large stash of notes he left for them were filled with jokes and pep. He had promised them he’d be at Enbarr in spirit, after all. It wouldn’t do for his metaphorical ghost to be a dreary memory.

Glancing out his window at the clear night sky, he decided it was a good night for company.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He found Lysithea in the library. He plopped his little gift on top of the book she was reading from.

“Claude.” She glared at him, but there was no heat.

“Hey now, you ought to take a little break every now and then.” He leaned back on an empty chair, kicking his feet up onto the table.

She turned her nose up at him, but took a bite of the gifted cake nonetheless. “You should know better than anyone why I can’t afford to take breaks.”

His grin shifted into something a touch sad. “As a dying man to a dying woman, I think it’s doubly important to enjoy the little things in life while you still can.”

She sighed, the anger draining out of her. “I’m not here to enjoy life. I have things I must do before I die.”

For once, Claude let the smile completely slip from his face. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was a moment of silence as Lysithea chewed. “Claude, I know you didn’t just come here to bug me. You’ve already bribed me with cake— what do you want?”

He pasted his smile back on, clutching a hand to his chest. “Why, I’m hurt! Can’t I just visit a dear friend? Someone needs to make sure you’ve been sleeping enough.”

Her glare would have killed a lesser man. “Claude, you’ve been working these past few days like a man possessed. Stop wasting time.”

Claude tilted his head. “Normally you’d be right. But tonight, I suppose I just wanted to indulge myself. I’ve done everything I can for now. Sent off all of my letters, signed all of my important documents, finished all of my homework.” He winked. “Anything else’ll have to wait until morning.” Not needing sleep had benefits. “What are you researching?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll ‘indulge’ you just this once.” She shifted her book so it faced him. “I’m close to a breakthrough.” She tapped on an illustration. “Linhardt and I have been running a few tests on your blood. We found a second energy signature, of a sort. It's on a completely different frequency of magic.”

He realized the book wasn’t one from the library— it was handwritten by Lysithea. There were three sketches. The first was his Crest of Riegan. The third a mock up of the King’s Mark. Between the two was a frilled circle with two oddly conjoined inner circles. The end points of his waxing crescent crest came to join with the inner waning crescents of his King’s Mark. Together they formed three complete circles.

The two marks coming together to create one whole. Fódlan and Almyra. Together the broken edges formed a whole and complete circle. 

Poetic.

“I won’t ask why you have a magical signature that looks like the symbol of Almyra. I know you wouldn’t tell me if I did, and to put it plainly I don’t care anyways. We’re onto something here. Just like my own crests, the two energy signatures are building on each other. But it’s different. With me, the energy merges— it’s like addition. 2 + 2 = 4. Yours instead feeds into itself, causing a chain reaction of sorts. It’s more like multiplication. 2 x 2 = 4. From there it builds up. For me that would mean 2 + 2 + 2 = 6. But for you, that turns into 2 x 2 x 2 = 8.”

Lysithea ran a hand through her hair. Claude couldn’t help but notice how unkempt and tangled it was, couldn’t help but notice how deep the circles under her eyes were. She had to be exhausted to come up with the math metaphor she was using. He felt a flash of fondness. Of _course_ Lysithea would try to explain something like this using math. He reined in his urge to ruffle her hair.

“So the two ‘crests’ build up. For me, it goes 6 + 2 = 8. But in the same situation with your crest, you hit 2 x 8 = 16. I can burn the added energy away at an 8. I can burn it back down to a 6 or a 4, to a point where it’s manageable. When it builds back up it only goes up by 2. But you can’t do that. No matter how much you burn away, it keeps multiplying. You could burn your 16 down to a 14, but then it would multiply again and you’d be at 28. The more I learn, the more crazy it is that you haven’t burnt yourself out yet.” She tugged at her hair again, shaking her head. 

“So what you’re saying is…” he tapped his chin, “mathematics is killing me? Guess I should have studied more in school. Sounds to me like you need to go to bed.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, tapping at the illustration of the King’s Mark. “It’s this second energy signature that makes no sense. Your single crest is similar to my two crests, except not at all. The two energy signatures are like— like, dark magic and black magic. They’re two fundamentally different things, but plenty of uneducated people lump them together. They don’t mix, despite both being a type of magic. Your… ‘crest’ is like that. It’s— it’s—” she made a nonsensical gesture with her hands. “We used to think your Riegan Crest was mutated, but I’m not even sure it _is_ a crest anymore! It’s two energy signatures that are somehow mixed into one. Like water and oil, except somehow in your case they _actually mix._ Linhardt has been trying to see if the energy signatures can be separated, but we haven’t made any progress so far. If we could just disentangle them, you’d probably be in a similar situation to mine. The ‘multiplication’ would ease into ‘addition’. But the more I find out about it, the less that even seems possible. Your crest is made up of two parts, but it’s like it’s designed to be that way. If we do find a way to split the energy signatures, it looks like both signatures will destabilize completely. But if we can just figure out some sort of way to stabilize—” 

“You should focus on something else,” he interrupted.

“What? Claude, we’re close. By the end of the year we should have a short-term solution in place for you. What do you mean ‘focus on something else’?!”

He shook his head, giving her a gentle smile. “I appreciate what you’ve done all these years, but you should focus on your own crest problems.”

She scowled. “I’ll focus on that when we’ve got you taken care of.”

“What are your plans for after the war?” He changed the subject.

Lysithea’s frown turned confused. “I suppose the same as I’m doing now. Research for both of us. Barring that, I think I’ll spend the rest of my time with my parents. I want to make sure they’re happy before I pass.” Her frown softened. “Claude, what of your parents? Will you go visit them after the war? Do they even know about your condition?”

“I’d like to visit them,” he couldn’t keep the wistful note from his voice, “but I doubt I’ll get the chance.” He cut Lysithea off before she could reply. “Hey, what do you say we ditch this dusty old library for tonight? It’s a perfect night for stargazing.” The last week had been cloudy, but the skies were clear now.

“Stargazing?! Of all the time wasters…”

“Just one night? C’mon. I promise I won’t bug you about it again.”

“I’m _busy_ Claude. Ugh. Don’t be a child!”

He draped his body over the desk, covering her book. “Come ooooon, the fresh air will do you some good! Seriously, you _really_ look like you need some fresh air.”

She just glared at him.

He pouted. “For me? Please?”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling and let out a long sigh. “You’re going to pester me until I give in, aren’t you.”

“Absolutely.” He ruffled her hair.

“Claude! Ugh. Fine. _Just this once!_ Don’t expect me to make a habit of this.”

Her eyes were still on the ceiling, so he didn’t hide the sad tilt to his smile. “Just this once.”

…

…

...

“Claude?”

“Mmm?”

“You don’t have much time left, do you.”

“Let’s just enjoy the stars, yeah?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He eases into bed. He hasn’t rested in a long while._
> 
> _He’s tired._
> 
> _At the strike of midnight, his heart stops._


	20. Corpse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've gotten asked about the King's Mark a few times. As mentioned in the story, it's the frilly circle-y symbol on Almyra's flag. I realize that's a bit of an obscure tidbit, because I think in-game the only place it's really seen is the few times battling Almyrans, and even then it's easily missed. Last chapter I described Claude's crest (of Riegan), the King's Mark, and a mix of the two. Then I got to thinking that it wouldn't be too hard to just scrap it together with my mediocre gimp skills. And it turned out way better than I thought it would, so I'm going to share it. 
> 
> Bam! Crest of Riegan + Almyran symbol. Kinda looks like a full moon. Or maybe an eyeball, depends on how much I squint.
> 
> I had a little extra time and was feeling artsy, so I tried my hand at a little banner-like tidbit too. Not 100% happy with it, I ran out of time lol. This chapter isn't the best place for it I'll admit, but it's not the worst place either. In hindsight I could have made it look sketchy on parchment and stuck it in the middle of last chapter, but oh well. I went with a starry theme instead. I'm a writer, not an artist, I tried. Probably should have switched the coloring of the King's Mark and the middle crest. I was going for 'moonlight' for the left and moreso 'silvery' for the middle, and I wanted them to stand out from each other color wise, but looking at it now the middle looks more like steel than silver. But white didn't show the details very well in the middle one... eh. Oh well. I tried ;-; (side note: if it messes with mobile too much, someone please let me know. I've never directly posted images in my stories before ;-;)

Light blooms above his bed. He pries his eyes open, squinting against the faint light. His limbs feel like lead, his body like stone.

He stares up at the shimmering light of his crest. It wavers in the air, the light pulsing weakly. It isn’t the usual brilliant silver— it hovers as a pale and washed out grey.

He blinks, his mind foggy. Each blink is a struggle. Something is wrong.

Begalta pounds against his chest. Her heartbeat is so loud. Distantly, he feels something urgent tug at his thoughts.

He tilts his head and vomits. Silver splatters across his carpet.

_That’s probably bad…_

He blinks slowly at the mess. His crest shimmers above his head.

He feels… very tired… 

  
  
  


_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

_She needs help. She needs to get him help._

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

_Her heart struggles for the both of them. She won’t let him go. She can’t._

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

_He can’t understand her. He can’t hear her, not now. He is fading._

_She has one option._

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

_Fingers twitch. Toes curl. Inhale, exhale._

_She holds her heart to his chest. She swings legs over the bed. She stands. For the first time in centuries, she stands. Knees shake. Muscles twitch. It hurts._

_It hurts._

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

_She stumbles, falling into the mess he just made. None too soon, as she feels contractions rip through his body._

_Vomit, vomit, vomit._

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

_She must focus._

_She stands again. One trembling step. Two trembling steps. Each step is easier than the last. It hurts. She reaches his door, turning the handle with silver-slicked hands._

_She stands in a hallway._

_The hallway looks nothing like home._

_Why is she here, again? Where…? What was she…_

_… …. … …_

_She tilts to the side, falling against the wall to prop her upright. Limbs threaten to fall._

_Focus. Focus!_

_Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!_

_She cannot let him slip away._

_The hallway. Healer. Must find the healer. Where…?_

_Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!_

_Near the end of the hallway? She doesn’t remember. Step by step she stumbles down the hall._

_Where is she?_

_Which door?_

_Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!_

_She pounds against the door. No response, she has no time to wait. She stumbles to the next door. She pounds._

_Sound comes from inside. Footsteps. The door opens._

“Nngh… Bah! Oh, Claude. Your glowing eyes are something out of a nightmare. Er, is that Failnaught, glowing on your chest? Guh, nevermind. Do you have any idea what time it is? What… uh, Claude?” _The woman’s pink eyes grow wide._ “Is that your crest?” _The woman squints, peering behind his shoulder._

_She needs to speak. She needs to get the healer._

_Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!_

“Oh Goddess, Claude, you’re covered in—”

_“Need…” she gasps through his tongue, fumbling for words she hasn’t spoken in so long. Words she can barely think, words she barely remembers. But for him, she pushes through the fog of her mind._

“What’s wrong Claude, what do you need? What’s going on?”

_“Need… heal… er…”_

“Damn, of course, let me get—” _The woman pushes forward, heading to a different room._

_She slumps against the wall, allowing his body to go limp._

_Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!_

_“Hu… hurr… rry…”_

_She hears the woman pounding on wood, yelling._

_Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!_

_She focuses, unwilling to let him slip away. It is hard. It hurts. But the loneliness will hurt more. She focuses._

_A hand cradles his chin. She looks into hazel eyes. The healer asks her something, asks her words she cannot parse._

_Thump… thump… thump… thump…_

_Thump… thump… thump… thump…_

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Seteth sat alone at Claude’s bedside. Rather, he sat at Rhea’s bed in which Claude rested. They had reorganized her room as a private infirmary for the downed Alliance leader.

Unless there was a breakthrough— unless there was a miracle— it would be Claude’s deathbed.

He kept his eyes on Begalta’s creststone as she pulsed in time with Claude’s heartbeat. It was easier to look at her than to look at Claude’s emaciated body.

He hadn’t realized how bad… 

No one had known how bad off Claude’s condition was, aside from Marianne. Seteth had to hand it to the tactician, he had hid the full extent of his condition well. Their inner circle had all known he was ill, but… this? Seteth had seen skeletons with more life to them than Claude. Were it not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Seteth would assume Claude was a long dead corpse.

Considering his heart had been still and silent for two days straight, the fact that Claude was alive at all was a miracle. On the third day of his coma, his heart finally restarted. It had been another day since then. 

Four days since his heart stopped, and Claude showed no signs of waking.

The revelation that Begalta had been the only thing pumping Claude’s blood led to mixed reactions. Some of the Golden Deer knew that Claude slept with Failnaught close by, but none knew the depths of his actual connection to the weapon.

Flayn, Marianne, Linhardt, and Lysithea were driving themselves into the ground trying to find any way to heal Claude. Despite their efforts, nothing helped. Faith magic couldn’t be used, as for some arcane reason the magic fought with Claude’s crest. Traditional medicine did little. Their crest research hit a wall.

With something bordering on desperation, Linhardt had suggested they jam Begalta’s heart into Claude’s chest. _“Well, his heart isn’t doing the job!”_ Linhardt had all but shouted on the second day of Claude's coma. _“Somehow the creststone is, and it’s not like we have anything else to try!”_

Seteth didn’t even have a chance to object before Marianne shot the idea down. Even if they gave Claude an artificial heart, the rest of his issues were still a problem. His native crest was still too much for his body. Physically adding a creststone into his body would bleed off more energy throughout his system, energy his system couldn’t handle any more of. At best it would speed up his deteriorating state. At worst, it might trigger a 'demonic' transformation. 

Seteth just didn’t understand it. Crests shouldn't do this. He didn't understand. No one did.

Claude stabilized without any assistance from them, though ‘stabilized’ was generous. Begalta’s sword held incredible regenerative powers, and only after constant contact with the weapon for days did his heart slowly start to beat.

There was an agonizing helplessness to the whole thing.

Claude’s timing to collapse couldn’t have been worse— though no one blamed him. Their forces were gearing up for the final assault. They were so close to ending the war, so close to finding Rhea, so close to peace.

It was unanimously decided to keep Claude’s condition a secret. Aside from the Golden Deer, no one knew their ‘master tactician’ was on death’s doorstep. When Seteth occasionally overheard idle gossip about Claude throughout the monastery, it made hearing tales of ‘The Undying Claude’ all the more bitter.

Lorenz, Hilda, and Byleth were tangled in not only keeping the army together and on schedule, but managing it all without letting slip why Claude himself was missing. Seteth himself was doing his best to pick up whatever slack he could. Lady Judith's help had been a blessing straight from the Goddess, though there was a cold look to her eyes. 

Judith had accepted their excuses about Claude’s absence (on a scouting mission) far too easily, in his opinion. Claude must have informed her of his decline ahead of time. Seteth knew the two were close. He took a small amount of comfort in the fact that Claude had found someone he trusted to confide in during his last days.

She cut off anyone that brought up the subject of Claude. _“He’s gone. I know that, so don’t feed me lies. If you have nothing useful to tell me, don’t waste my time. Someone has to see this war to the end if that boy won’t.”_ Her words were harsh, but Seteth knew well that grief had many faces. Anger was a common outlet. Judith was a woman of action. She wasn’t the sort to hang her head by someone’s bedside. Seteth was grateful for how well she was able to push forward as the rest of them scrambled through loss. 

It seemed every other hour they found another spinning plate Claude regularly juggled that no one had known about. Claude left them a lot of notes, and Seteth was willing to bet they hadn’t even found half of them yet. It was like Claude’s ghost clung to every little document, and he wasn’t even dead yet. It was impossible _not_ to read the written wisecracks in Claude’s voice. Any paperwork Claude hadn’t completed had his thoughts and suggestions written out. 

In Claude's office, it was found that he had whole folders of notes for everyone. A lot of them were work related, but everything had a personal touch to them. Seteth’s folder was smaller than the rest of the Golden Deer’s. He hadn’t opened it yet. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. To read the letters— letters written by Claude about a world he knew he wouldn't live to see— would be to admit Claude was well and truly dead. Seteth wasn’t the only one that felt that way. Lorenz and Hilda were the only two that had cracked theirs open, as it was obvious Claude left them what he could to help them lead the Alliance in his absence.

Away from the public eye, Hilda often burst into tears during these past few days.

There was someone by Claude’s bedside at every hour of every day. _“In case he wakes up,”_ was the reason Hilda gave. _“In case his heart stops again,”_ was Linhardt’s reason.

_“In case he_ **_doesn’t_ ** _wake up,”_ was the reason no one was willing to voice.

Everyone was busy, but they all made time for Claude.

Two hours prior Seteth took over for Ignatz, despite the man’s protests that he could stay a bit longer. Noticing the dark circles under his eyes, Seteth had kicked him out of the room to rest. Night had fallen by now, but Seteth found he didn’t care. 

He had never been close with Claude. During Claude’s academy days, he’d considered the house leader a downright menace. But he knew how hardworking Claude was underneath his carefree attitude. In the past months, he had seen how caring Claude truly was to his companions.

_(Seteth never told Claude about the debt he owed him. He never told Claude how that silver vial he slipped them once, four years ago, had saved Flayn’s life. The silver that he later learned came from Claude himself.)_

Ever since the disaster with Macuil, Seteth couldn’t help but find a soft spot in himself for Claude. In large part it was because of Claude’s care for Begalta. The fact that Begalta held any awareness at all was— he was conflicted. It was horrifying to think that his siblings still existed in some sort of undying torture. But in a selfish way, it was like reuniting with family. Even before Claude knew how sentient Begalta was, he treated her with respect no one showed to ‘mere weapons’.

He had wanted to speak with Claude more, but the war left them so busy. Seteth had, foolishly in hindsight, assumed he would have plenty of time to talk about the subject. In over a millenia, Claude was the only one that managed to ‘speak’ with one of his sibling's souls. He wanted to know more. What did Begalta feel? Was she in pain? How aware was she? Claude stated that she rarely spoke in actual words. How much could she remember?

And the others, were they all the same? Locked in an unending nightmare?

Now he might never get the chance to ask. Not only was the world about to lose a brilliant mind and soul— Seteth was about to lose the only connection to his lost family.

_‘I’ve written this into my will, but take care of Begalta for me. I mean, I know you’ll obviously do that anyways. She’s being quite the brat as I’m writing this (sorry Seteth, but it looks like I’m her favorite. ;) Can’t beat my Riegan charm. You come in second place though!). You should take her stargazing. I know you can’t hear her, but she’ll be able to hear you. She gets lonely a lot, so make sure to chit chat with her. She likes having her sword nearby too— it’s oddly soothing. I’d say don’t forget to feed and water her, but all she needs for sustenance is a hug or two now and then ;) She loves you a lot, so stay safe!’_

That little note had been slipped into an envelope with his name on it, attached to Claude’s will. He had no doubt the tone was the same for all of the notes.

He watched the slow rise and fall of Claude’s chest. Seteth was no stranger to loss. They were at war. People died all the time. Staring at Claude, he realized he’d never lost anyone so slowly. Flayn had slept for so long, but he had been able to clutch close to the knowledge that she _would_ wake even if it took a thousand years. His people, his family, his wife… they had all died suddenly, gone in an instant. There was no sickbed for him to sit at, no stretch of time to contemplate it all. No smothering sense of dread as hope drifted further and further away. He had always grieved being unable to say goodbye— and still did. This though, this wasn’t any easier. 

There was a faint knock on the door. Byleth entered with their usual silent grace, taking a seat across from Seteth. They looked exhausted. 

There were no words to be exchanged. _‘No change’, ‘Shouldn’t you sleep’, ‘He’s dying’._ Nothing they could say that they didn’t already know.

Claude twitched, mumbling. 

Seteth startled. Byleth jerked towards Claude, hesitating as their hand hovered by his head. For the first time in days, Claude peeled open his glowing eyes. He gave a fitful moan.

Byleth brushed a gentle hand through his hair, their eyes locked onto Claude’s.

“Izzat… you?” Claude croaked, an odd lilt to his words. “Please…” 

“Stay with me,” Byleth murmured. “Don’t sleep yet.”

“Please… you cannot… cannot take him… please…” His speech came out sluggish and broken, as though his mouth couldn’t form the words properly. There was an odd accent bleeding into his words, one that Seteth knew was familiar but could not place where from.

Seteth traded a confused look with Byleth.

“I’m not taking anyone. You’re safe.”

“Mother…” Claude murmured, “you cannot… take Claude… won’t allow… please…”

_Oh._ Seteth felt ice run down his spine. He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper. _“Begalta.”_

Claude rolled his head to look at Seteth. No, not Claude. _Begalta_ rolled Claude’s head, peering at him through Claude’s eyes. “Brother… Cichol…?”

Seteth grit his teeth, resigned to Byleth learning his secret. He shot them a look, one that he hoped conveyed _‘I’ll explain later’._ He rested a hand on Claude’s cheek. “I’m here.”

“Brother… Please… Claude is… dying…”

“I know.” It was all he could say. “I know.”

Claude’s face twisted into something angry, his teeth gritting and his half-glazed eyes narrowing. “Won’t… _let him…”_

~~Claude~~ Begalta pawed at the bedsheets. Seteth made a shushing sound, smoothly resting Claude’s hand back at his side. “Don’t move, please.”

“Need… the stars…” Begalta struggled under the bed sheets. “Brother… take him, please… The stars…”

Seteth exchanged a look with Byleth. The sheer mix of concern and confusion on Byleth’s usually stoic face made him feel less alone. “Claude needs to rest.”

Claude’s head tittered to the side and moaned. “No… he will… die… please, please, please. The stars… save him…”

“You can save him?” Byleth spoke up.

“I will. I will. I must… Please, the stars…” Begalta’s determination painted Claude’s gaunt face. “The stars are **_my_ ** domain.”

Byleth looked to Seteth, their expression falling to determination. “The balcony is as good of place as any to see the stars.”

Seteth’s mouth fell open. “You— you aren’t really thinking of—”

“If there is even a chance of this helping Claude, I’ll do it.”

Seteth nodded. “I… you are right. Yes.” He looked back to Claude, glowing jade eyes cutting through the darkness. If there was even a chance… 

He tucked Claude’s body in a thick blanket, careful not to jostle Begalta or her sword. Even with the blanket, even with the bow and sword, Claude was terribly light.

They carried him to the balcony, laying him in the center. Begalta no longer spoke, staring up at the stars. 

Aside from the occasional blink of glowing eyes, nothing changed. Seteth didn't know what he expected.

Perhaps Begalta merely wanted Claude to enjoy the night sky one last time.


	21. Starlit Dreams and Endless Night || Lost and Resurrected Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone ever take a nap in the hot summer sun, drifting to sleep as your thoughts quiet and fade away, drifting until your sense of self begins to unravel, unraveling until there is nothing left- no awareness, no thoughts, no sensation, every trace of consciousness dissolving into a state of unbeing- only to be awoken and realized with horror, as your sense of humanity snaps back painfully into place, that as you were dissolving into nothingness your mind was still recording the memory, and you are left awake with a vivid memory of being wholly and completely undone, the memory of becoming nothingness so intensely branded into your mind that you have an existential crisis as you realize with sinking dread that if sleep can undo the mind so thoroughly, what hope is there to retain anything in the face of death?
> 
> Hahaha yeah me neither.

_Claude dreamed._

He drifted and tumbled, his thoughts fuzzy and confused. His limbs buzzed with a cold numbness. The darkness swept him away in body and mind. It was thick like syrup, swaddling him and suffocating him. Cozy and stifling. Warm, yet cold.

He felt like he was forgetting something.

His sense of himself unraveled further and further. He was beginning to forget he had anything to forget in the first place.

He drifted, falling and flying. Through centuries and seconds, he drifted and drifted.

He came to a stop, his drifting suddenly tethered. The darkness eased around his lungs, parting like a curtain. The pleasant buzz of flying ebbed away, his thoughts trickling into something coherent. 

The first thing he noticed was that he felt… strange. Off. He felt floaty and light, but far more solid than before. He felt… real?

He looked around. It was dark, impossibly so. The inky blackness stretched forever. But as he looked closer, he noticed small motes of light. They twinkled their greetings to him.

_Stars._

The realization left him reeling. He was surrounded by _stars._ He recognized constellations, their bright lights so close. He reached out a hand. It felt as if he could touch them if he only dared.

He started walking. He didn’t know where he was going or why. His legs moved by instinct. 

He passed by the Circle of Twelve. He marveled at the bright lights. At the top shone Naga herself, the Holy star of divinity and justice. In the center glittered Loptous, the Dark star of plots and malice.

He continued walking. He passed the sibling stars Kingsgrail and Kingshield; the stars of Healing and Power, the Earth Mother and War Father. Mila and Duma.

He continued walking. He passed the Silent star Anankos, star of secrets and lost knowledge. He passed the Rainbow star, the star of crafting and smithing. He passed the warring Dawn and Dusk stars, the stars of beginnings and ends.

He continued walking. He passed the Broken star Idunne, star of ruin and vengeance. He passed the White star Gohto, star of wisdom and knowledge. In the distance he saw the Shifting star Xane, star of mischief and wandering.

A streak of light passed before him. The shimmering creature reminded him of a koi fish. Clutched close to its chest was a glimmering pearl of light. _An astral messenger,_ he realized. It turned its head to look at him as it came close. A feeling of curiosity not his own flittered behind his eyes before passing just as the messenger too passed.

He continued walking, letting his legs take him along an invisible path. The longer he walked, the more stars and constellations he recognized. The pantheon of endless Stars and Gods he grew up with spread out before him.

His legs slowed and came to a stop. He blinked up at the brilliant light before him. It was so bright he should have gone blind, but he stared at it without pain.

The light shifted, and he realized it wasn’t just a star. Motes of light rearranged, the figure of a luminescent wyvern towered above him. Not a wyvern— a _dragon._ It dwarfed Claude, even curled up and sleeping as it was. 

“Hello?” He found himself speaking, his lips moving without his thought. 

The great dragon stirred, uncurling. A great rumble echoed from the creature’s chest, running a shudder through Claude. Two brilliant green eyes opened, twin stars of their own. The lights focused on Claude, and he couldn’t help but notice how close the color was to Teach’s eyes.

“Well now… a visitor?” The dragon brought itself to its full height, wings flaring as it stretched. It lowered its face down closer to Claude, giant starlit eyes inches from his own. “Not any visitor either… A human. Ahh, I recognize you! Greetings, my little dreamer.”

“You recognize me?” Claude tilted his head. He should be afraid of the giant beast, but he couldn’t feel anything but a sense of safety.

“Your dreams have taken you far, little one. Perhaps too far this time. You should not be here. Only the resting dead reside within the sky.”

“The dead…?”

“Death for my kind is not the same as for yours.” The great beast swung its head in a gesture to the stars. “You walk among the graveyard of dragonkin.”

“Oh.” Claude swallowed, taking in the stars shining through the void in a new light. He wondered if this was where Begalta should be.

The starlit dragon brought an ethereal claw down to curl around Claude’s back, cradling him in its great grasp. Despite the size, it was impossibly gentle. “What a welcome surprise this is. So long have I resided within the stars, and yet you are the first decendant of mine to visit!” The creature rumbled something like a laugh.

“Who are you?”

The dragon shifted, shrinking in on itself. Where a towering creature stood moments before now stood a giant of a man, were a man’s flesh made of woven stars. The man was a silhouette filled with motes of starlight. Green and silver-streaked hair flowed from his head as if suspended in water. Wisps of green flared as eyes. “Perhaps I am more recognizable to you as this. You spoke to me often as a child. Even as you grew older and quieter, you still looked to me for comfort and guidance when you could not still your restless thoughts.”

“The Guiding King star…” Emblazoned in silver on the man’s forehead was the King’s Mark. Though the man was anything but _human,_ Claude could recognize the man from ancient portraits of the First King. He had thought the portraits to be exaggerations— now he saw they didn’t capture a glimmer of the man’s power.

The star smiled. “Indeed.”

A thousand questions danced at the tip of his tongue, but they melted like wet paper as he tried to think of them. “You heard me?” is what he says. Something he thought long dead within him sparked at the thought. As a boy, he had wanted so _desperately_ to be heard. By his parents, by his people, by anyone.

The star laid a bright hand on Claude's head, ruffling his hair. “I did. I hear all of my chosen heirs when they speak to me, but none have ever spoken with me quite as you have. Others have offered me small glimmers into how my people have fared— but through your voice I was told the details I desired. You spoke candidly to me, a grandson sharing his day with his grandfather.” The star’s smile fell. “I am sorry that I was unable to respond to you as you so wished.”

“I can’t really blame you,” Claude found himself saying, “since it seems you are dead.”

The man huffed a laugh. “Indeed. It makes things rather difficult. You have made me proud to call you an heir of mine. I heard you speak of your dream— and what a dream it is! It was for such ambitions as yours that I fell in loves with humanity in the first place.”

“You don’t think me a fool?” Claude’s insecurity spilled from his lips.

The towering star took a kneel to come at eye level with Claude, much as a parent might to a child. His hand cupped Claude’s chin, a sad smile on his face. “No. Were I to call you a fool, I would be forced to call myself one as well. Uniting our people was no easy task for me. Indeed, many moments I felt I was wasting my time. After all, I was nothing like the people I had come to care for and call my own. ‘Why should they follow me at all,’ I thought to myself.” He ran a thumb down Claude’s cheek. “My first attempts, I will admit, were rather foolish. I knew not of the customs or people as well as I should have. I had my doubts. But I did not let those stop me— just as you have not let your doubts stop you.”

“Doubts? But you’re a star. A _God._ A God bound by mortal doubts…?”

The star shook his head. “Since man and dragon both walked the earth together, my kind have been revered as deities. We were powerful in our time, yes, but not Gods. Were we Gods, surely we would not have all died out.”

“What killed you all, then?” Claude felt a chill at the thought.

“The greatest of all foes.” The star huffed a laugh. _“Time._ My kind thought ourselves above time, and in our arrogance we lost. But humanity has always known time’s wheel. The era of dragons is long over, and now reigns the era of humanity. You have your doubts and fears, my little dreamer, yet you have come so far despite them. You have made me proud, and I know you will continue to do so.”

He swallowed roughly. “Thank you.” Claude stared at the star, his thoughts heavy and filled with cotton. “Thank you but… I will disappoint you. I’ll die before I can see my dream come to pass. The dreams of men… they don’t amount to much.” Claude sighed, turning his head away. He looked behind him and saw something other than darkness and starlight. A small orb of blue. He knew, somehow, that he was looking at _home._ With sudden clarity, he remembered his last snippets of consciousness. “I’m dying right now, I think. Or perhaps I’m already dead.”

The star hummed, stroking a hand through Claude’s hair. “You are very much still alive, my descendant. But you are correct— you are dying. Your will is strong, but your body can only handle so much. Humans were not built to withstand such power that resides within your blood.”

Claude nodded, resigned.

“Come now, where is that bright spirit? Do not dim on me yet my little dreamer— you still live. This is not to be your end.”

Claude shook his head. “I live, but for how long? I’ve done all I can. All I can do now is hope I set things in motion well enough for the others to continue my work.” His shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Far be it from me to deny you your rest. But you are here for a reason, are you not? For millennia I have heard the words of my descendants, but never have I been able to reach them in turn. You though… you have done the impossible. You stand before me, in the domain of stars, where no other mortal has ever tread. So tell me: do you wish to live?”

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go.”

“And to live?”

“Yes. _Yes._ I want to live.”

The star’s smile grew teeth. “Good answer. I despise watching work go unfinished. There is something I can do to aid you.” The man traced a hand along Claude’s chest, falling to rest over his heart. “You were born of my line, of my blood. You are my descendant. My great, many greats, grandchild. But you were also born of another. Born of the blood of a Nabatean— a race similar to mine, but different in the ways that truly matter.” The man huffed. “Were you born of two Manaketes, or born of two Nabatean, all would be well. Yet this unique mix… Mm, I always wondered what became of Sothis. Even our strongest could not peer to where she vanished. I can see that you have tamed your Nabatean lineage. But you have only tamed half— my blood still roars freely within you. Mortals are not meant for both.”

“Begalta. With her, I’ve been able to regulate my crest.”

“My grandson, you have focused on only half of the problem. Do not despair. My kin have dealt with taming our blood for a very long time. A lost art now, seeing as we have all but died out. The same solution will work for you, despite being fully human. Fortune smiles upon you.”

The star’s hand moved to Claude’s back, resting on his King’s Mark. He felt a warmth— a fire— collect under his shoulder blade.

“You and your blood will always be tied to me, but the power my blood grants to you can be separated. My kin call these _dragonstones.”_

Claude gasped, feeling a tugging sensation at his back. He fell forward as his legs gave out from under him. 

“There there, I have you…”

The star rested his other hand along Claude’s temple. There was a niggling sensation in his head, like something worming through his mind. The star’s hand left his head, but there was something left behind nestled between his thoughts.

“A lost art no longer.”

The star tucked something into Claude’s hands. He looked down at the small object. A glimmering silver crystal, emblazoned with the mix of his King’s Mark and Begalta’s crest. His own personal emblem. Three unbroken circles. It was warm in his hands.

“I doubt I need to tell you to keep it close. If this is lost to you, so too will be the power it holds for you. To any other, this will be nothing but a pretty stone.”

Claude nodded, eyes still glued to the fist-sized crystal.

“It seems dawn is approaching, my bright little dreamer. Our time is at an end. Know that I will always be watching down from the night sky. I expect to hear plenty from you.” The star gave him a fond look. “I know you shall continue to make me proud. Go forth, and guide our people into a new era.”

Claude met the star’s eyes. The green lights blazed, and the star smiled. 

  
  


Claude blinked, and all too suddenly he was blinking up at the distant night sky.

It took him a few blinks before he realized that he had been dreaming.

_Nothing but the dreams of a dying man dangling fruitless hope;_ he couldn’t help the bitter thought.

Begalta peacefully thrummed against his chest. It felt like she was asleep, though he’d never noticed her sleep before. She felt exhausted. Or maybe that was him. He wasn’t sure.

He tilted his head, his body weaker than he ever remembered it feeling. His eyes fell from the stars and landed on Teach and Seteth, settled not far away. As his eyes drifted again, he realized he wasn’t in bed.

Behind Teach, he could see the start of a new dawn approaching the horizon.

He forced himself into a sitting position. Teach and Seteth were immediately by his side, helping him sit up. He shook even with their help. He shivered, the warm blanket around him pooling in his lap.

“Did you have any luck?” Seteth asked, his eyes searching.

“Luck? With what?” Claude croaked, his throat dry. He realized he was achingly thirsty. “Guh, I feel like I fell off a wyvern. I love the scenery, but why am I out here?”

“Claude?” Teach asked. “Is that you?”

Claude snorted. “Who else would it be? I—” he was interrupted as he started coughing.

There was— there was _something_ in his chest. He bent forward and coughed harder. He could hear Teach and Seteth panicking at his side (as much as Teach ever panicked, at least). There was a lump of something warm lodged inside of him.

He coughed and coughed and he could barely breathe. His ribs ached and he worried he would break them. His coughing gurgled into a few silent gasps as that _something_ choked his throat. With a final cough, he spat the thing from his mouth and fell limp into Teach’s arms. He heard a sharp _plink, plink, plink_ as something bounced along the stone ground. 

He stared at the fist-sized crystal from his dream. It was the same silvery color as his usual vomit, but it gleamed with a light of its own. The mix of the King’s Mark and Begalta’s crest shone upright, staring him in the face.

“It wasn’t a dream…?” With a trembling hand, he cradled the gem in his palm. He raised his head to the stars, up to the Guiding King star. The star that he _met and held a conversation with._ “Huh.”

His world tilted on its axis. He fumbled the dragonstone into Teach’s hands. “Keep it safe. ‘S important.”

His strength abandoned him completely, and the world slipped away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to clarify this because I don’t want people to be disappointed when it doesn’t happen: No, Claude will not be turning into a dragon :( Canonically, dragonstones don’t grant any power— their purpose is to seal power away. He’s still human. More explanations happen next chapter ;)
> 
> I’ve been teasing stars = dragons for a long time, and it's both exhilarating and terrifying to finally get to this chapter. All of the mentioned dragons, aside from the First King, are canonical dragons, mostly Divine dragons specifically. The First King/Guiding Star is an oc. I know, I know. But I wanted a dragon that was unique to Almyra. A little look behind the curtain here; this idea actually originated from a crack theory I joked about with my brother, about how Almyra was Valentia/Valm (I mean, it's ALMyra, named after saint king ALM, clearly!) In this crack theory, Claude inherited the brand of Duma + the Crest of Riegan. Obviously this story evolved away from that, but that's where it started.
> 
> Mila and Duma: Shadows of Valentia.   
> Idunne: Final boss of Binding Blade  
> Circle of Twelve + Loptous: Genealogy of the Holy War/Thracia 776  
> Anakosh, Rainbow Sage, Dawn/Dusk dragon: First Dragons from Fates  
> Astral messengers: Astral dragons from Fates (aka like Lilith)  
> Xane and Gohto: Shadow Dragon/Mystery of the Fire Emblem


	22. Remains of a Sacred Note || Sung through Flesh and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning for this chapter: Graphic depictions of starvation and severe illness

“It’s some kind of miracle,” Marianne told him.

Claude groaned into the bedsheets. “This is a really shitty miracle. I feel awful.”

For all that Claude had been dying for years, he never  _ felt _ like he was dying. Now though, he felt  _ horrible. _ He was constantly cold, slept all the time, could barely move unassisted (he couldn’t even  _ walk!), _ he constantly ached, his skin hurt… 

Oh, and he was  _ starving. _ He was  _ so _ hungry all the time. He still couldn't handle solids, adding insult to injury. He was so  _ damned hungry. _ Give him gross-milk any day. He wanted to eat with the grace of a starving animal, but he wasn’t even  _ capable _ of that. He couldn’t lift his neck to sit up, couldn’t lift the cup to his own lips, couldn’t do anything. He had to be fed like an  _ infant. _ The worst was when they pulled the cup away from his lips and he was still  _ so hungry. _ No amount of begging (or even crying, once) could convince Marianne to give him more. He was sure he’d be plenty embarrassed when he was recovered. For now though, he was just hungry. The cup of watery juice that they fed him every two hours was never enough.

Watery juice. He was forced to subsist off of  _ watered down juice. _ He had to work his way up, Marianne said. His body couldn’t handle anything else— to the point where Marianne was convinced he would  _ really  _ die if his diet went out of balance. She’d given him the technical rundown, something he usually would have appreciated. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to focus on anything she told him but the basics. All he knew was that he was  _ hungry, _ and if he had to keep subsisting off watery fucking juice he’d never stop being hungry.

“Your weight is going up, Claude. We should be able to get you back to drinking milk within the next few days. You are recovering at an impressive pace!”

He didn’t  _ feel _ like he was recovering. He felt like he was dying. He felt like shit. Worst of all, this was the best he had felt since his recovery began. His previous snatches of consciousness and coherency were sparse and hazy at best, painful hellscapes at worst. For once he almost felt like something resembling a person, and he still felt like shit.

A gentle reprimand drifted through his thoughts from Begalta. She still rested on his chest, tucked under his many layers of blankets. Apparently when his heart stopped, she had been the only thing to keep him alive. Afraid his heart might fail again, they kept her with him at all times now, along with her sword. She was the one good thing about his situation. A trickle of love drifted to him. He still felt like a pile of shit, but at least he was a loved pile of shit.

His thoughts drifted to food. Eating his fill would kill him. He knew that, but he was still damningly hungry. Maybe next time Raphael visited him he could convince the man to bring him something from the dining hall. He doubted Raphael fully understood what a starving person should and shouldn’t eat, he could surely convince— 

_ DISAGREEMENT!! _

He gave a surprised grunt with how loud Begalta vetoed that plan.

“Oh, are you alright? Are you warm enough?” Marianne asked.

He was  _ fucking freezing, _ but he wasn’t about to admit that. “’M fine.” No amount of blankets could warm him. Ever since he coughed out that rock, he couldn’t get warm. Marianne  _ said _ his temperature was average, but it sure didn’t feel like it to him. Thinking back at all the times people had commented that he felt almost feverish, he wondered if his usual body temperature was higher than average. Where he used to feel an ever present warmth under his skin, now he felt nothing. Did everyone feel that same void? Probably.

Apparently blood wasn’t supposed to be hot? But then how did the body circulate warmth?? Even as a child, blood oozing from a simple scrape was hotter than his skin. How did other people keep warm if the warmth wasn’t stored in their blood??

Guh, he was too tired to figure anything out.

“Wha’s the date?” With the amount he had been sleeping, as well as his coma, his grasp on time was tenuous at best.

Marianne paused her task for a moment, not looking up. “Please don’t worry about the date. Just focus on your recovery.”

“How long ‘til everyone marches for Enbarr?”

She sighed. “Claude, you know you won’t be coming with us.”

Claude grit his teeth. That’s what  _ they _ thought. He forced himself to smooth out his expression, easing into a tired… well, to call it a ‘smile’ would be generous. A ‘slight upward tilt to his mouth’ was more accurate. “Yeah, I know… Not ‘nless I get another miracle, mm? Jus’ wanna know how long.”

Marianne fidgeted, her eyes not meeting his as she seemed to weigh the pros and cons of telling him or not. “It’s the 14th.”

He still had time, then. “Anything I can do to help? ‘M sure everyone’s running themselves… uh…” he paused, furiously trying to regain his train of thought. “Running… running themselves… uh, ragged trying to keep up… appearances ‘n stuff, yeah?”

Marianne gave him an uncharacteristically stern frown. “You’ll do nothing but rest. You’ve gained a little bit of weight back, yes, but you’re not out of the woods yet.”

He sighed, sinking further into his pillow.

“If we win this war, you’ll be king for all of Fódlan. You’ll need your strength for that. We’ll take Edelgard down, but you must be there to rebuild, okay? We can’t do this without you.” Marianne was so earnest. Claude couldn’t help but feel even worse. She bit at her lip, looking away. “You’ll need your strength to tear down the walls surrounding Fódlan. Just like you told me about. I want to see the world you’ve envisioned.”

He still didn’t understand her faith in him, but it was touching nonetheless. He tried to deflect the genuine emotion. “Me? King? You flatter me. Teach’ll make a better ruler. People’re saying they’re the second comin’ of Saint Seiros.”

Marianne gave him a knowing smile. “They call you a saint too.”

“Bah. Thought I stamped out those rumors.”

“You’re very popular among the people.” She frowned. “It’s not like you to doubt yourself. Do you think you won’t be fit to be king?”

“I’d shrug, but I can’t really move tha’ much. So just imagine ’m shruggin’.” He needed to go home after the war. Fódlan, as much as he had come to care for the land, wasn’t his home. Besides, he had a duty to his people back home. He had a duty to fulfill his dream. As touching as Marianne’s faith in him was, he couldn’t do that from this side.

Marianne hummed, going back to her work. That was one of the many things he liked about Marianne— somehow she always knew when he didn’t want to keep talking.

The door creaked open, Lorenz’s head popping into the interior of the room. He entered, his shoulders slumped and his posture exhausted. He plopped down into the guest seat beside the bed, his eyes never meeting Claude’s.

“How is his condition?” Lorenz asked Marianne.

“Shitty. Feels like six years of hubris ‘s finally catching up with me.”

Lorenz startled. “Claude! You’re awake!”

Claude spared him a weak smile. “Regrettably.”

Lorenz had yet to visit him when he was periodically awake. Considering how busy Lorenz must be semi-filling in for Claude, he couldn’t blame the man.

“You look almost as bad as I feel,” Claude croaked.

“I must admit, I never appreciated many of the tasks you performed behind the scenes,” Lorenz commented, still refusing to look at Claude. “How you managed to do it all and still have time to spare confounds me.” The answer to that was that Claude hadn’t needed to sleep (much). Lorenz knew that. Though thinking about it now, Claude wasn’t actually sure he did. Did he ever tell Lorenz he didn’t need to sleep regularly? Or had he only implied it? His hazy mind couldn’t conjure any memory of actually telling the man.

“A complement from Lorenz?” Claude glanced at Marianne. “Did I hear tha’ right? Wow, I must’ve died ‘n not realized it. This a coma dream? Someone pinch me, or maybe restart my heart.”

“Do  _ not _ joke about that!” Lorenz barked.

Claude raised an eyebrow. “‘S my life, I’ll joke ‘bout it if I wanna.”

“I cannot believe you…” Lorenz finally met Claude’s eyes. Then he flinched and looked away. “That you hid the extent of your condition, even from us… even from me…”

Claude would have shrugged if his atrophied muscles made the gesture easy. Instead he settled for gracing Lorenz with an unimpressed look.

“Nothing to say? I thought you trusted us.”

Claude barked something resembling a laugh at that. He felt too awful to hide behind much of a mask at the moment.

Lorenz’s face turned a shade of red. “You’re  _ laughing?! _ What are we to you, Claude von Riegan?  _ Pawns? _ You never trusted any of us, did you?”

“Lorenz, please calm down. Claude is not well right now. He’s in a great deal of pain.”

Claude huffed again, staring at Lorenz’s shoulder. His eyes couldn’t seem to focus on anything. “You know I don’t trust easy.”

“Trust  _ easy? _ I think you do not trust  _ at all!” _ Lorenz stood, ignoring Marianne’s plea to calm down. “You  _ knew _ you were dying. You set everything up  _ just so. _ Did you think your scheme would go unnoticed? I have seen how so many missives come in at the most convenient time. Plans  _ you  _ set up, plans conveniently set up for someone  _ other  _ than you to finish. Those  _ damned _ cheerful notes you left with your instructions! Yet you never thought to ask me? To speak plainly?! We could have worked  _ together! _ Why did you refuse to trust me?!”

Claude sighed, letting Lorenz rant at him. He was getting really tired… “Have I done anything bad? Have any of my schemes done anything but  _ benefit _ you? Don’t see why you’re complaining.”

“You have been  _ using  _ us! Perhaps I was a fool to think we were  _ friends.” _

Claude felt something in his face slip, his eyes desperately darting to Lorenz. “Aren’t we?” he asked a little too fast, a little too pleading. His voice was too quiet, too open. Too vulnerable. Dammit. Truth was falling too readily from his exhausted mind.

“Friends do not use friends, Claude.”

“…Don’t they?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question, it was a real question. Friends used friends. Right? “You use me, I use you. It’s equal. ’S what friends do— no hard feelings. Jus’ how it is.”

Lorenz was silent. Marianne was silent. The room buzzed— or maybe that was his head.

“… Right?”

“You actually believe that.” Lorenz’s whisper thundered through Claude’s head.

Claude groaned, the press of fatigue demanding his attention. He was sick of being sick. “Mm, you’re m’ friend ‘cause ’m th’ duke. People ‘nly like me when ’m useful.” He huffed, feeling bitter even as he felt fatigue claw deeper into him. “‘S why you’re angry at me now… I couldn’ even make it to the end of the war.”

“Claude, that— that is not true. That is not why I am angry,” he pleaded.

“Think we’ll ‘ave to… have to table this discussion,” Claude murmured as the world began to spin. “We can come back to it. Or not. Mm… preferably not.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was the thrum of agony seeping into the nothingness he found himself in often these days that cued him into the fact that he was awake. His body always hurt now, but there were times it was better.

This, his thoughts fuzzily decided, was not a better day. In fact, he had enough awareness to realize this was a  _ very _ not-better day.

He moaned, because moaning was better than sobbing. He was too tired to categorize the hurts— he just  _ hurt. _

A warm hand thumbed over his forehead, threading through his hair. He heard a quiet murmur, but he wasn’t really listening.

Every breath he took hurt. Every inhale, every exhale, it all just  _ hurt. _ His skin ached. His bones ached. His insides ached. And he was really, really cold.

But the hand, the hand was warm.

He moaned again. It wasn’t anything sharp and devastating as a flesh wound. It was just an overwhelming tide of small hurts until he was nothing but a body that hurt.

The voice was still speaking to him. A new hand, not the hand still petting his head, clutched his own limp hand. They clutched his hand too tightly, his skin blazing at the touch. But at the same time, it was  _ warm. _

“Please…” he croaked.  _ ‘Please’ _ … what? He was so cold, he wanted to be warm, but he couldn’t think of how he was supposed to say that. Words were hard. He was coherent enough to know that was a rarity for him.

He dragged his eyelids open, fuzzy blots of color replacing his darkness. His eyes couldn’t seem to focus, but he recognized that shade of pink.

“H… ilda?” He gave a few lazy blinks before it registered that she’d been talking the entire time.

“—arianne said you’re fine, not dying at least, I mean, not like before, but she said  _ every two hours, _ like, in a super strict way she almost never does, so I know she’s being serious about that, and not like the ‘most of the time’ two hours I used to bring you food, but like  _ every _ two hours or  _ else, _ and I don’t think I can deal with that ‘or else’, Claude. So I need to sit you up, but you also gotta be awake, because wouldn’t that be pathetic if you choked on this? We can’t have that in the history books! Marianne said you can still swallow, which, just saying, the fact that she specified that you’re still able to swallow is a little terrifying, because  _ duh _ of course you should still be able to swallow, I didn’t even consider you might not be able to, but if Marianne had to specify, I guess that means it was a possibility? But I mean, it’s not like—”

“Hil…da?” He tried to focus on her, marginally successful. Her face cleared into a semi-clear blur. “Whu…?”

“Oh, good, you’re awake! Yeesh, don’t scare me like that!” Her voice wobbled, distant and distorted to his ears. Either she was upset, or they were underwater. Or something. Maybe his ears weren’t working right.

Her hand left his head. He whined at the loss. That had been the only thing that  _ wasn’t _ painful. He opened his mouth, ready to beg for her to keep doing that, but he couldn’t seem to formulate how to beg. Instead, he just whimpered, his eyes falling shut.

“No no no, wait don’t go back to sleep!”

“‘Urts.”

“W-what was that? Claude? Are you okay?”

“Hils, it ‘urts.” He choked out a dry sob, which also hurt. His throat, his ribs, his  _ ribs. _ “It ‘urts, ‘m cold ‘n tired, it ‘urts so bad… ‘ilda, make it stop, please…”

“I’m going to go get Marianne—”

He felt her hand leave his. His throat gave an involuntary cry. “Don’ go…”

“I— I’ll be right back, okay? Promise.”

_ Don’t go… don’t leave me alone… _

A hazy feeling soothed at the back of his mind. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He let it carry his pained thoughts away, trying to focus only on the soft hum of a lullaby in his head. He was somewhat successful. He still hurt.

He heaved his eyelids open again, not having realized he shut them. He could see pink and blue.

“He’s okay. Um, well, not  _ okay  _ okay, but he’s still stable.”

“Mari, I’ve never heard him like this. He—” Hilda’s voice broke. “Why is he in so much pain? He’s supposed to be getting better!”

“He is! Hilda, we both know he’s been sick for a long time. He’s been hurting for years. Sometimes, healing hurts more than the sickness.”

He heard Hilda sniffle. “I— I know that. But he… Mari, he was begging me. This can’t be normal, what if something’s wrong? Like, more wrong.”

Marianne sighed. “I can’t give you any other answers, Hilda. His vitals are stable, as stable as they can be in his state.”

“‘M cold…” 

“Oh, Claude, you’re awake.”

He tried to reply with a  _ ‘mhmm’, _ but it came out as a moan instead.

“I know it hurts, I’m sorry.” Marianne cupped the back of his head, her other hand bracing his back as she eased him into a sitting position. He cried out. The shifting of his body  _ hurt. _

He couldn’t even lull his head to the side. She propped him up like he was a doll. He  _ wished _ he was a doll. Wouldn’t feel pain if he was a doll… 

Something in his chest hissed at the idea. Thoughts of being trapped in a blind prison of unmoving bones drifted through his head. Unable to move, unable to beg, unable to cry. So much pain. He didn’t want to be a doll, he decided.

“Goddess Marianne, he—” Hilda’s voice choked off. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Then leave.” Claude blinked, registering somewhere in his head that Marianne never sounded that terse. “Hilda, this isn't easy for me either. But it must be done. Claude is our friend, and he’s suffering. Yes, it’s hard to see him like this. If you can’t stomach it, then leave and let me do my work.”

“Don’ figh’...”

There was a beat of silence.

“Sorry Mari. You’re right. How can I help?”

“Here.”

There was a gentle hand on his cheek. The hand was too callused to be Marianne’s, so he assumed it was Hilda’s hand. She tipped his head back and brought something to his lips. Room-temperature liquid trickled onto his tongue, faintly sweet. It might as well have been nectar from the Gods for how amazing it was. The trickle was so agonizingly slow. He wanted more, the liquid easing down his sore throat. The hurt of his body was nothing compared to the amazing feeling of  _ food. _

Before he knew it Hilda was pulling away, the trickle of watery juice ending. 

“More?”

“No Claude, not for another two hours,” Marianne’s gentle voice told him.

“Please…” He was _so, so_ hungry, _just a little more,_ _please please please._ Warm hands positioned him to lay on his back, and he was helpless to do anything but beg. “Jus’ a little more, Hils, please…!”

He heard Hilda sniffle. “Where was this appetite before, huh? I’ve been having to sit on you to get you to eat for years now.”

“Please please please please…” he was barely even aware that he was speaking at all.

He heard a sob. “M-Mari, you’re so much stronger than me.”

He felt a flash of anger. Why was  _ she _ the one sobbing?! He wanted to sob! He  _ hurt, _ he was  _ cold, _ he was  _ tired, _ and he was so  _ hungry. _ But sobbing hurt, and crying hurt the few times he even managed a stray tear or two.

Just as soon as the anger came, it was swept away with apathy and hunger.

He drifted off to the sound of Hilda’s tears and apologies, falling back into the embrace of dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the start of what I’ve mentally dubbed the ‘recovery’ portion of the fic, also known as the 'Grumpy Claude' section. Claude’s getting better, but he's starting rock bottom. He’s got a long way to climb before he’s okay again. On the bright side, I think this is the last chapter to end on a super-sad note. As sad as it is, at least he's finally beginning to heal now that his body can rest.


	23. Secrets sleep behind glowing eyes || Neon shine beneath cloudy guise

He woke to a crash and a curse.

“Watch your language. Tha’sa adult word.”

“Linhardt, you woke him up!”

_ “I _ didn’t wake him. I’m certain it was the crash that woke him. I’ll remind you that we share equal fault in that.”

Claude strained to turn his neck. He was getting to the point where he could almost manage it. He wasn’t there yet, though, and only succeeded in running a spike of  _ hurt _ through his body.

“Stop that!” Lysithea barked. Her hand cupped his chin and tilted his head for him. “Is your curiosity satisfied now?”

Linhardt was fiddling with a familiar machine, now on wheels. It was the Crest Analyser from Hanneman’s office.

“Gonna check my crest?”

Linhardt nodded. “There are a great many experiments that need to be run. Unfortunately, Marianne has forbidden me from the majority of them.” He hung his head, sighing. “Even worse, I agree with her. Your health is very delicate at the moment. As much as I’d love a second run of those faith-based tests we ran back in school, those will have to wait.”

They took a small clipping from his hair.

A faint light appeared from the machine. He blinked, squinting at the projection. Very, very faintly his Crest of Riegan trembled fitfully in a sickly golden color. It wavered and sputtered, flickering in and out of sight.

“‘S your machine broke, or izzit my crest tha’s broke…?” Claude murmured after an uncomfortable period of silence.

“The machine is working fine,” Linhardt murmured. “If only we could do some actual testing. I wonder if you can even activate your crest at all…”

“This is impossible,” Lysithea flatly stated.

“Tha’s me. Claude Impossible Riegan.” 

“What could have possibly led to this result?” Linhardt mumbled to himself. “Did the crest burn itself out? Your crest has always appeared weaker when scrutinized, but this is far weaker than before. Hm, perhaps it shows up more clearly on another frequency?” He started moving some nobs around. The image flickered and sputtered but remained mostly the same. “It’s gone. Lysithea, come look! The other crest-like magic— it’s gone.”

“The wha’ now?”

Lysithea peered at the image. “It’s not, actually. Look here—” she pointed to a barely visible outline of a circle surrounding his crest. “Still there, if only just.”

Claude squinted at the displayed image. Very faintly he could make out a whitish frilled… circle… He groaned. He knew Lysithea knew something about the King’s Mark, so of course Linhardt would know too. Damn.

His groan was met with twin raised eyebrows. “About a month ago we discovered a unique magical signature in your blood. Similar to a crest but different.” Linhardt shuffled through some papers, pulling out a journal and flipping to the page that had his King’s Mark illustrated in excruciating detail. “Seems you recognize this. Tell us what you know.”

Claude stared blankly for a few moments, trying to think of what to say. Lysithea had let it go before, but he knew Linhardt wouldn’t. His mind was sluggish and came up with nothing. “It’sa mark? Very, uh, circle-y.”

“A very  _ specific _ mark, Claude. From a very  _ specific _ place.” Lysithea gave him a knowing look. “It’s in your best interest to tell us what you know.”

“”S jussa birthmark.” Claude groaned, a low thrum of pain pulsing through his bones. “Canna go back to sleep yet? 'M tired.”

“Birthmark? It’s on your body? You can either tell us about that mark,” Linhardt gestured back to the machine, “or you can start explaining what could possibly erase more than half of your crest.”

“On m’ back. ‘S just a mark. Or, maybe not, I dunno…” It  _ was _ the mark of a… star dragon… space ancestor… thing. Did the First King ever tell him what it was, exactly? He couldn’t remember. “Does the excuse of ‘Divine Intervention’ count? ‘Cause tha’s the best I got.”

Claude didn’t need to watch Lysithea’s face to know she rolled her eyes. “Claude, you are the least likely person for the Goddess to intervene on behalf of. You don’t even believe in Her.”

“I mean, ’s not that I don’t believe in her. I know Sothis exists. But ’m not gonna to worship her. ‘Sides, wasn’t talking ‘bout her.” He yawned.

There was a moment of silence. “Who then?”

“Mhhum?”

“Who gave you ‘divine intervention’?”

“The First King.”

“I think he’s falling asleep…”

Claude opened his eyes to glare. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them.

“This ‘First King’ then. He… took your crest?”

Claude twitched his neck, the closest he could manage to shaking his head. “No, jus’ put it somewhere else.” Teach still had his dragonstone. They would keep it safe for him.

“Mmhm…” Linhardt scratched something down on his journal. “And where is your crest now, then?” His tone was that of someone talking down to a child.

“You don’ believe me.”

Linhardt waffled a hand. “I don’t  _ not _ believe you. You have a habit of doing the impossible.”

Something tickled at the back of his mind. “Lysithea, give me your face,” he mumbled.

There was a beat of silence. “Excuse me?”

His hand twitched, the most he was able to move it. “Put my hand on your face. Gonna prove it.”

There was another beat of silence as Lysithea and Linhardt traded glances. Linhardt shrugged and Lysithea rolled her eyes. Still, she did as he asked. She brought his hand to cup her cheek.

Claude scrunched his face. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, what he was feeling for, what he was even doing. It was more by instinct than anything. “Higher.” He paused, mentally feeling for something. “Right on your temple.” For whatever reason Lysithea indulged him, raising his weak hand to rest at her temple.

_ There.  _ He could feel it. Like a puzzle piece from a different puzzle, smushed into a slot it didn’t belong. There was another smaller one somewhere else. The pulse point on her wrist, he realized, held the second puzzle piece that didn’t fit. He ignored it, focused only on the big one.

There was a knot of  _ something _ in his head. If his mind was a library of books written in black ink, this  _ something _ was a book scrawled on pages of starlight, written in vibrant ink of every color. It was foreign, different, and not written by his own hand (or rather, not something he personally learned). Like looking down at a book in a different language only to be startled to realize he could read it with perfect comprehension. 

Of course, the mind was not a library and memories were not books— it wasn’t so simple. Claude couldn’t ‘read’ whatever strange knowledge was in his head. He just  _ knew _ it. He  _ knew _ how to cradle a dragonstone and draw forth his essence stored within as if he had done it a thousand times, despite never having done it even once. He  _ knew _ how to syphon that energy within himself and funnel it down into his dragonstone, despite never consciously doing so.

The problem was that he wasn’t fully sure  _ what _ he knew. He had no idea what he was doing, and yet at the same time he  _ knew  _ exactly what he was doing. He  _ knew  _ how to look for an energy signature that he should be entirely blind to. He  _ knew  _ how to feel it out, to guide it, to bind or unbind it. He  _ knew  _ it felt different than it naturally should in Lysithea, though he wasn’t sure what it  _ should _ feel like. Just that it wasn’t right.

It wasn’t until he had his hand on Lysithea’s temple that he realized he knew any of that.

It was the same concept as what the First King did for him in creating his dragonstone. Just a little different. Less solid. It was smaller than his own stored essence. He unwound it. It was easy, his mental hands moving in a motion completely foreign. The complicated mess of knots and spliced roots looked intimidating. Were it not for something in him  _ knowing _ the exact motions to make, he would have either made it worse or gotten lost in trying to untangle it. But with a smooth twist, a twitch, a pulling and a moving motion, it came undone.

With that arcane knowledge, he realized he knew how to  _ make _ dragonstones, or something similar at least. No, this was not a dragonstone. Same concept, but different. Smaller. Younger? No, that wasn’t right… 

Lysithea jerked under his touch, retreating and leaving his arm to fall limply against the bed. Cupped in his upright palm, he saw a small square slate. Emblazoned in brilliant silver was the Crest of Gloucester. It reminded him of a game piece. It was no bigger than a square of a chess board.

He blinked against the haze of sleep threatening to pull him under. 

“W-what?!”

“See? Told ya. Somewhere… mm… else.”

“What was that?” Linhardt asked, sounding far away.

He heard Lysithea suck in gasp after gasp. He groaned, struggling to remain conscious. He didn’t hurt her, did he? His thoughts, having been crystal clear for just a moment before, crashed against his skull like a tide of waves, threatening to drown him. He tried to stay in the moment, but it was hard. Sleep called to him.

“Linhardt. He— he did it.” Her voice shook. Right, right. Needed to stay awake for Lysithea. “I can feel it. I— it’s like I can take a deep breath for the first time in— in—” She hiccuped a sob.

“It ‘idn’t hurt, idit?” Claude mumbled.

She sobbed. “No Claude. It didn’t hurt.” He felt her hand cup his. He couldn’t see it though, as his eyes refused to open. “Lin, my hair. Take a s-sample.”

He drifted.

_ “What?!  _ How—?! Your Gloucester Crest, it’s gone! This— this is impossible. There’s not even a trace, it’s…”

He drifted.

Lysithea was either crying or laughing. Maybe both. Something wet landed on his hand. “Thank you Claude,” she mumbled. “Thank you, thank you.” She was definitely laughing, but it sounded so watery. “Half-dead, half-asleep, and you manage a miracle. No wonder they call you a saint.”

He tried to refute that, but his thoughts slipped away from him before he could.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Claude was asleep more often than he was awake. He was vaguely aware of this. Precious time slipped away from him. He  _ had _ to get better. He needed to if he was to be able to pull off his plan. Not that he had much of a plan. It was just so difficult to think. He had spots of clarity, but those came and went like dreams.

There was a hand running through his hair. He heard a frustrated sigh, followed by some shuffling papers.

“Doin’ work at my bedside?”

The hand froze. He heard an intake of breath.

“Mm, you can keep going…”

He heard the sound of a swallow, deafening in the silence of the room. Slowly, the hand in his hair resumed. The hand trembled, he noticed.

Opening his eyes, he saw Hilda. He cracked her a small smile. “Wow, lookit you. Doing work? ‘M so proud.”

Hilda gave a shaky exhale. “Oh Claude. You sound so miserable.”

He choked something that, to him, was a laugh. To Hilda it probably sounded like he was choking. “Been worse. Hey, wha’s th’ date? I haven’ missed Enbarr yet, have I?”

“Not yet, no. Don’t worry about that.”

“‘M not worried.”

“Good.” Hilda sighed. “Good. Just focus on getting better, leader man.”

“Don’ have much of a choice…”

She sniffled. “That’s right, you don’t.”

“Don’ lookit me like that,” he whispered. She looked so sad.

She followed his request, taking her eyes off of him completely. She returned to the handful of papers she’d spread out on his bed, shuffling them around. He couldn’t read any of them from his position, much to his annoyance. The noise tapered off as she held a single sheet, staring down at it.

“Claude, why did you write all those letters?”

“Hm?”

Her hand shook as she held the piece of parchment. “To me. And to Lorenz, and everyone else too. These  _ stupid—” _ she choked, her voice catching. She shook the paper at him. “These  _ stupid _ letters, filled with  _ jokes  _ and quips and— and— Do you know how painful these things are?! But  _ no, _ you left important information in them, so I  _ have  _ to read them, even though they hurt.”

“Don’t cry, Hilda.”

She didn’t listen to him, leaning forward to hide her face in his blankets.

“They weren’t supposed to make you cry.”

She heaved a sob into his sheets. “Well, they did!”

“Sorry. I tried my best.”

She continued to sob into his sheets. He glanced down at the semi-crumbled note she left on his bed. He recognized it.

_ ‘Can’t allow my death to result in withdrawal of support. If you’re lucky, I lasted long enough that news won’t reach the Round Table before the march on Enbarr. If not, then you’ll need to do some damage control. Best case, they won’t hear about my demise at all. But in the worst case, you need to stall them. Don’t let them withdraw their troops. Fool them thinking the march on Enbarr is delayed if you have to, but do  _ not  _ let them take back direct command of the troops they’ve lent to Teach’s banner. Rumors might help you— suggest I’m off busy doing something important, maybe. Get that seed of doubt in their head. I’ll leave that up to you— you always could build and deliver an earworm of a rumor far better than me. _

_ Sorry, sorry, I know this is a lot of work for you. Don’t worry though, the war’s almost over! Then you’ll be able to laze about as much as you please. Take a few naps for me, ‘kay? ;) There’s an  _ excellent _ nap spot in the forest by the monastery. It’s just close enough to a creek to hear but not so close as to be eaten alive by bugs. Perfect grove for resting, if you ever feel like taking the effort to find it. You’ll find the right place if you find weird marks on the trees. I used to carve all sorts of nonsense on those trees back during school. Don’t tell Seteth, because I carved an unflattering doodle of his face into one. Anyways, make sure to take care of yourself. Keep up on your beauty sleep. I’ll come back to haunt you if I find out you haven’t been sleeping! I know this is hard on you, but you’re the morale of the army. You’re a special gal Hils, and I’m not just saying that to butter you up! I hate to ask this of you, but please, take care of everyone’s spirit. You always did say you wanted to be our cheerleader back in school. You certainly did a great job of keeping my spirits high all these years. Not sure if I ever thanked you for all you did for me. No way I would have lasted as long as I did without you. Thank you for being my best friend, even when I was an ass. Seriously, even after that time I accidentally bleached part of your hair? Can’t believe you forgave me for that!’ _

“Hilda?” He felt more awake than he had in awhile. More guilty too.

“Uh-huh?”

“I can’t hug you right now. So will you hug me? You look like you could use a hug.”

If anything, her sobbing only got louder. But she pulled her head off of his bed. Fat tears and trails of snot painted Hilda as an ugly crier. It was nothing like the fake tears she used to pull during school. It wasn’t even like the silent tears she shed for him in the past few months.

She carefully peeled back his layers of blankets, revealing his naked chest and Begalta. Glancing down, he realized he looked slightly less dead than last time he saw his chest. He was still emaciated, his ribs still ripples of tight skin— but his ribs looked  _ slightly  _ less defined. His stomach was a  _ slightly  _ shallower soup bowl than before. On one hand, it was progress. On the other hand, it was hardly  _ anything. _

“Ca-an I m-move yo-ou?”

“I’ll be upset if you don’t.”

Her hands shook as she gently maneuvered him into an upright position. The touch, the movement, it all hurt, but he did his best to hide that. She shifted to sit on the bed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she sniffled.

“You can do better than that, Hils. This is barely a hug. Kick off your boots, get cozy. C’mon, you gotta make up for the fact that I can’t give you one back.”

She hiccuped between sobs. “I’ll sh-show y-you a hug, y-you stu-upid, s-s-stupid idiot!”

“Gasp, a ‘stupid stupid idiot’? Dunno how I’ll recover from that insult.”

She wheezed. She tucked her arm under his legs, lifting him just enough for her to wiggle under him. Despite being a fair bit taller than her, she cradled him in her arms, settling him in her lap. One hand came up to support his neck, tilting his head to rest on her hair. Her other hand she wrapped around his chest, tucking her arm under the bones of Begalta. She pressed her face into his neck, smearing snot and tears. He doubted it was a comfortable place to cry, but he didn’t comment.

She wailed against him, rocking them both back and forth.

Despite his chest being exposed to the cold air, he felt so much warmer than he had in ages. Hilda’s body heat felt  _ amazing. _ He couldn’t exactly melt into her embrace, being the limp doll that he was. He wished he could, though. He was still cold (he was half-way convinced he would be cold for the rest of his life) but it was much less cold than before. Even through his multiple pairs of sleep-pants, he could feel her radiating heat.

“‘S okay, Hils, ‘s okay. I’m still here.”

“B-ut you a-a-almost weren’t! Y-you alm-ost d-died, a-a-and y-you’re still so s-sick.”

“Gettin' better every day.”

She choked in gasps of air. “Yeah. Yeah. You  _ better _ be!” She shook under him, her sobs tapering into full-body heaves. “Y-your  _ stupid _ letters, I ha-ad to read them. A-and then I m-missed you even m-ore! You weren’t even dea-dead y-y-et, b-b-but your letters made it sound like— sound like—” She wailed. She clutched him tightly, just short of painful, but she was still so gentle.

“I’m sorry, Hils.”

He wasn’t sure how long she cried against him. He was the most comfortable he’d felt since this entire thing started. He was still in pain, his body still aching, but it wasn’t so bad. The warmth was trying to lull him to sleep, but he didn’t want to sleep yet.

Slowly her tears dried into hiccups. 

“Feel any better?” he asked.

She sniffled. “Kinda.”

“Thank you for caring.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he even realized he was speaking. But he didn’t try to take them back.

“Uh-huh. You owe me. Repay me by getting better.”

“Guess I’ve got no choice.”

After a few more sniffles, Hilda hesitantly began to pull away.

“You can stay!” Claude cursed himself for the borderline panicked way he said that. He cleared his throat. “If you want, I mean.”

Hilda burst out into the sort of laughter that can only be freely given after a good cry. “Aww, here I thought this hug was for me, but you like it too huh?”

“Mmm…” His eyelids lowered, sleep lapping at his mind. “You’re warm…”

“Oh, I see how it is. Is that all I am to you? A source of warmth?”

He cracked a smile against Hilda’s hair. “Yup. You give good hugs too…”

“You’re tired, huh.”

“Oh shush. Bet you are too. Can’t be easy covering for me… you deserve a break…”

Hilda giggled. “You’re constantly complaining about being cold. I guess if I can keep you warm, it’s my duty to stay.”

“‘Xactly. Not allowed to leave, by my royal decree… as prince of… mmm…”

“‘Royal’ decree? Didn’t know you got a promotion, Mr. Duke Man.”

“Mmuh?”

“Nevermind, you’re falling asleep.”

“Am not.”

He heard Hilda kick off her shoes. Then she was shuffling them both under the blankets. The movement didn’t hurt as much as it had earlier.

He drifted off to a hand threading through his hair, a feeling of warmth, and the sensation of safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude: What’s this behind your ear?  
> Lysithea: What? There’s nothing there.  
> Claude: Ah-hah, but that is where you’re wrong! Tada!  
> *Presents her crest*  
> Linhardt: *Claps*  
> Claude: And for my next magic trick, I shall avoid questioning by passing out!
> 
> If it wasn't clear, Claude basically extracted a NG+ Dragon Sign from Lysithea. If it was at all confusing, don't worry, more will be coming on that in future chapters.


	24. Forever and a Day || For the Soul to Drift Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Took a little month-long break to recharge... not that I stopped writing during that time lol. 
> 
> I'm proud to show off some [fanart](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1470081) for this fic, by Hufflehobbit! It's Claude's symbol from this fic, a combination of the Almyran symbol and his Riegan crest. It looks incredible (made with a laser cutter, I believe), and everyone should look at it! Bask in its silvery light!
> 
> Anyways, I should be back to a regular-irregular, roughly once-a-week schedule for updates. I was finally able to hammer out most of the few remaining tidbits left to be written for this story. I finally went back and finished Enbarr! It's been sitting in my doc as a placeholder forever now. I almost left it as another Gronder (aka skipping it entirely), as everything I wrote was more or less a rehash of canon (which I try to avoid). It's not going to be a rehash now, to say that much hah. It very much got away from me (in a very good way). The downside of that meant that it rippled out into the rest of the stuff I've written, which meant a lot of that had to be edited or added on to... and then I started adding a bit more, and, uh... let's just say when I started posting this fic, it was 75k~, expected to hit 80-85k max. Which is roughly the current word count, and I've still got another 70k at least. So when I said it was 2/3rds the way done at chapter 15... that's really not the case anymore lol. So thank you to everyone that's commented and otherwise kept me passionate for this story.
> 
> Now, enjoy more soft heartbreak ;) My treat!

“Sorry to wake you, Claude.”

He peeled his eyes open, vacantly staring into the flickering shadows cast by a candle out of his line of sight. “Food?”

“Yes, it’s that time.”

He groaned, excitement and dread threading through him. A plea broke from his lips as he fell into his base urges. Ignatz sat him up. He cried out at the pain. _Not a good day._ Everything hurt.

“Here, I thought to try something a bit different this time.” Something was propped up in his lap, prompting his eyes to drift over. “I thought, perhaps, a distraction might help.” It was a colorful painting of the night sky. Comets drifted across the dark blue background in vivid reds and greens. He noted that it wasn’t accurate to the real night sky— none of the constellations were right. “Try and count how many comets there are of each color. Can you do that for me?”

He groaned, barely able to pay attention to what Ignatz was saying. He _knew_ Ignatz had food. He _knew_ it, knew he was holding out on Claude, knew he was so hungry.

Ignatz tipped the glass against his lips. No, the painting didn’t help. He didn’t even notice it. He couldn’t think for himself, let alone _count._ His world was _food, taste, drink, eat._ There was nothing else. Only hunger and desperation. Then the glorious food was _gone._

He begged and begged. He cursed Ignatz, blubbering whatever he thought might affect the painter. If any of his barbs hit, he couldn’t see in the flickering shadows.

Piece by piece, his mind settled, though not wholly. How could it? _Hunger._ How could this word ‘ _hunger’_ be the same word he’d used so often before? To be hungry was to crave a snack at night. To be hungry was to clutch his stomach after missing a meal. To be hungry was painful, but it was not this _unmaking._ The two kinds of hunger were unrecognizable. No words could describe the animal that thrashed inside of him, the apathy of defeat and helplessness, the complete loss of dignity and sense of himself.

Maybe if he was an artist like Ignatz he could paint something to express it. The misery went deeper than words and language. Detached, he listened to himself beg endlessly. Pointless, he knew. Ignatz wouldn’t give him any more food. But his desperation didn’t _care._ That _need_ went deeper than his body, etching itself into his mind and spirit, making itself home inside of him. That _need_ left no room for anything else. Not even himself.

He watched from elsewhere as his body babbled. Perhaps, he thought, that if it weren’t for Begalta’s tether on his soul, he might drift away completely. Perhaps he might wither away in mind if not fully in body. Perhaps he might leave behind an empty husk. Any out, _any escape,_ he would do _anything_ to escape the pain. Begalta refused to even allow him to ponder those sorts of escapes.

He sat on the desk, watching himself spill desperation past his lips, vile pain and hate vomited all over Ignatz. The man never flinched, not from a single word. He only looked at Claude’s body with pity. Claude too looked at himself with pity. 

He knew he had a reason to keep going. He had a drive, a goal— he knew he did. Something that, at one point, had been important to him. More important than anything. He couldn’t seem to remember it. He had a dream. It was an important dream. Like any dream, he could only recall the vaguest sense of it. He wondered, if he ever recovered, would his ambition remain the same? When he remembered what it was, would it be enough? Right now it didn’t feel like enough. He couldn’t think of anything that was worth this suffering. Whatever he wanted to do with his life, he didn’t care. It wouldn’t ease his hunger. If he could throw everything away to relieve his _hunger-that-is-more-than-hunger,_ he would do it. He would sacrifice anything or anyone or everything or everyone. He watched as Ignatz spoke calm, level words that Claude’s body ignored. He would sacrifice anyone if it meant the pain was gone. He had enough sense to be grateful that wasn’t an option.

There was a sense of familiarity to the scene. Somehow, he knew he wouldn’t remember this when he next woke. This wouldn’t be the first time he forgot. The man he once was would be appalled at forgetting. Right now he didn’t feel much like a man at all. The wraith he currently was felt relieved at the idea of forgetting. 

Ignatz coaxed his body to lay back down, ignoring the way Claude ran his throat hoarse with cries and pleas. He didn’t understand why they cared about him so much. He could see it clearly, far more clearly than the Claude that spat on the good will being shown to him: his friends well and truly loved him. If it weren’t for them, he’d be long dead. He didn’t know if he loved them for that, or hated them.

It was strange to be dependent on others. Starvation didn’t just steal away his strength— it took his willpower too. He wasn’t ashamed about that. No one would retain their will in his state. The hunger and pain left no room for it. It had nothing to do with being strong or weak— it simply was. 

He watched his body tire. The words that slipped from his lips slowed before finally ending. He stared at his eyes, two glowing lights in the darkness, as they vacantly watched the ceiling. How strange, to see himself seeing. Ignatz held his body's hand, thumb running over bony skin. Ignatz was talking, he realized. He had been for a while. 

“Hey, Ignatz,” Claude interrupted. Claude spoke quietly now, less desperate. He leaned forward, curious to hear what his body had to say. “Do you regret… painting me…?” Ignatz said a bunch of words, but they were distant. He sounded confused. “Not so… heroic now…”

“Maybe not heroic,” Ignatz whispered from across the room. “Not like a storybook. Yet, you still inspire me. Not in the same way as before. I… it’s a very uncomfortable inspiration. You’ve done so much for us. You’ve pushed yourself this far. Your bravery, your tenacity—”

He laughed, shaking his head. His body mirrored him with a broken parody of mirth, sounding something like a death rattle. “‘M not _art,_ Igg. It hurts. ‘M helpless. It hurts. I’m—” his voice choked off into a dry sob. “I’d rather be dead.” There was nothing _brave_ about him. He was helpless to act under his own agency. No, this was torture, plain and simple. Tenacity? Hah. What a joke. Tenacity was for those who had a choice.

Ignatz went as still as Claude’s body. “You don’t mean that.”

“Can you paint that?” His body rasped. “Pain… beyond words? Can you… take my suff… suff’ring, ‘nd trap it… in a painting…? It would… it would be so… so awful, no one… no one’ll look at it. You could… bury it. Far… far… away… from me…” His lips curled into a delirious smile. “Please…?” It was odd. He never used to say ‘please’ all that often— especially not genuinely. 

“I’ll paint something for you,” Ignatz whispered, a whole continent away. “I’ll paint you something that will ease your suffering, no matter how long it takes me. Something warm, something nice.”

“Can you… paint home… for me?” his body whispered. His eyelids slid shut, the two blots of light winking out. “I miss home.” His breath rattled, fading out into sleep.

He watched as Ignatz hung his head, murmuring promises under his breath as he clutched Claude’s hand.

He turned his head to the presence sitting beside him. She had no face. There were no eyes or mouth or nose, just a smear of translucent skin. She barely had a body— only the loosest of shapes. She glittered like silver starlight. She held his hand, refusing to let go.

_“Are you sure?”_ he whispered to her. He knew her answer as well as he knew himself. She would never let him go, whether he wanted her to or not. _“You’ll have to some day.”_ Her grip on his hand tightened. _“I wish you would let me die.”_

_“You don’t,”_ she rasped in a thousand unidentifiable voices. Her head turned to where his body lay, where Ignatz whispered prayers to Fódlan’s Goddess for him. _“They won’t let you go either.”_

_“I guess not.”_ He sighed. The pain was distant like this, at least. He didn’t want to go back to it. _“I’ll thank you one day. Not today, though.”_

The room twisted. He was everywhere and nowhere, he was starving and tired and hurt and asleep. His consciousness faded into the emptiness he craved, giving him a break he knew wouldn’t last.

* * *

“Easy bud, there we go…” Raphael tipped the glass of watery juice past his lips.

“Nnngh, more, pleeease, please…”

Raphael ruffled his hair. “Sorry bud, no can do. You know that.”

“Hn, b-but, please, ‘m hungry, ‘m _starvin’,_ lil’ more won’t ‘urt, need it, need it, _please_ Raph…”

“Marianne walked me through this. Too much and your tiny tummy will burst! Bet that’d hurt a lot more than being hungry.”

“Don’ care, don’ care…” He whined, that familiar desperation turning like a weathervane towards anger. “You don’ care ‘bout me, never have…”

“Aw, you know that’s not true.”

Something burned in his stomach— more than usual. “Don’ _fuckin’_ lie! ‘M sick of it, sick of people pre… pretendin’ to care…”

“Nah, you’re just sick. We all care about you buddy. You’re our friend!”

“Stop lyin’. Hate you, stupid meat-head. Worthless, no one likes you, bet your parents‘re happy t’be dead, so they don’t gotta deal with a stupid son.”

“Let it all out. Don’t worry, Marianne told me about this too. I don’t hate you Claude.”

“Why not?!” he shouted, his throat screaming at him. “Ev’ryone _else_ hates me! Jus’, jus’ stab me like ev’ryone else. ‘M vuln… vulner’ble, can’t even run… weak… can’t… can’t even…”

Raphael just kept petting his hair. “Nah. None of us hate you. If you gotta run, just let me know. I can carry you! Don’t worry, we’ll keep you safe.”

“Stupid. ‘M not… stupid. You’re lyin’. Hate me…”

“I know you aren’t stupid. You’re like, the smartest guy I know! So use that big brain of yours. Am I a good liar?”

“N… no…”

“Exactly. Here, listen up, I’m about to lie: I… um… I… I totally read a book! Yeah! A super big, huge, giant book! Read all of it, because… reading is easy for me, yeah! How was that? Whew, lying is hard!”

Claude stared up at Raphael, up into the man’s mismatched silver and gold eyes. He stared at the giant mesh of silvery scar blatantly visible. “‘Kay… not lyin’… jus’ means you’re too stupid to know you’re suppos’d to hate me…”

“What makes you think I should?”

He whined, his mind mushy. “No one _should._ ‘S stupid, not my fault I was born… It’s, it’s cause they’re ig… ignor’nt, not their fault… not mine neither…”

“Well, if anyone’s mean to you, just let your big bro Raph know! I’ll give them a talking to, make sure they understand how wrong they are! You’re great! And, if anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll protect you!”

“But… why?” He didn’t get it. “What’dya want… in return?”

Raphael didn’t hesitate, not for a second. “For you to be happy.”

His spiraling thoughts screeched to a halt. He’d heard that once before… somewhere…? Oh. His parents. His eyes slid shut. “Promise… you don’t hate me?”

“I promise! Wanna pinky promise? Oh, guess you can’t really curl your pinky, huh… hm, what other way…”

“Even if ‘m Almyran…?”

“Yeah, even if you’re Almyran, or Dagdan, or, uh, from any other place! You could be from anywhere, and you’d still be Claude!”

Maybe it was the pain, but… maybe he actually believed Raphael.

* * *

  
  


“Heya Claude. Wakey-wakey.”

He groaned.

“Or you can keep sleeping and I can throw away your meal…”

He scrunched up his face, mumbling at her.

He heard the sound of liquid sloshing. “What was that? Speak up.”

“I said,” he muttered bitterly, “that you’re awful.”

“Now that’s just mean. Maybe I won’t feed you.”

“We both know tha’sa empty threat…” For one, Marianne was very strict about him eating every two hours. He also knew Hilda wouldn’t be that cruel. She eased him into a sitting position. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

“Not a good day, huh.”

“Had worse.”

“Well turn that fake-smile into a real-smile, ‘cause you’re in luck. I’ve got a whole _hour_ free today. I’m wanting to take a nap. Know any good spots?”

His smile did turn more genuine. “I’ve heard of one, yeah.”

“Only after you eat though.”

He gave an involuntary moan. _“Please_ just let me eat already.” He hated how hungry he was. The worst was always right after he ate though. Eating felt amazing, but the blubbering _need_ for more that always followed was far worse.

Hilda winced. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to tease.”

She mercifully tipped the cup to his lips. The slow trickle of thick, sweet, slightly fishy cream was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. His stomach had regained enough strength to upgrade from thin juice to gross-milk for most of his meals. Objectively he knew the ‘nutritional’ milk tasted awful, but after so long with watery juice the cream was _so good._ His entire body lit up every time. He tried to tilt his neck to pour the cream into his mouth faster, but Hilda’s steady hand didn’t let his jaw budge.

Far too soon she pulled the empty cup from his lips.

“No, no, give it back,” he desperately mumbled, “give it back, give it back. Still some left.” His eyes followed the glass, entranced. There was always a little bit left over stuck to the side and bottom of the glass. “‘M supposed to drink it all.” They both knew he was making an excuse. His hand twitched weakly at his side, barely moving. Progress, he knew. He didn’t care about _damned progress_ though. He wanted to yank the glass out of Hilda’s hands and lick the last bits of cream.

Hilda sighed. “You’ll get more in two hours.”

“I’m so hungry, please, please Hil.”

“I hate it when you do this.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering. He hated it when he did this too. He knew he couldn’t have more, but he _wanted it so bad._ He knew the hunger would ease into something more manageable in a few minutes, but those minutes might as well be an eternity away. “Please distract me. Hil, I’m so hungry…” 

He heard the sound of clinking glass as she set the cup aside. She brushed his bedsheets aside, slipping around him. She did this on occasion now, and he was beyond grateful for her. Usually. Right now, he wanted to yell at her. Or cry at her. _Anything_ to get more food.

“You’d give me more if you really cared ‘bout me.”

It was like he was two people. There was the part of him that could still think, and there was the primal animal in him. He _knew_ he couldn’t eat more, he _knew_ Hilda was doing this in his best interest, he _knew he knew he knew._ And he hated her. He wanted food. He wanted to stop hurting. He wanted the pain to end. He wanted the hunger to end.

“I hate you.” He groaned, his hunger needling him sharply. “I hate you, I hate you.”

Hilda ran a hand through his hair. “It’s okay. I know you don’t mean it.”

“You’re a dis’ppointment. Never be good ‘nough. Hate you.”

She just hummed. She’d heard it from him all before.

He gave a weak dry sob.

“Got a letter from my brother. Haven’t had the chance to write him recently. He says he’s worried about me. Frankly, I’m surprised it took him this long to send me a letter.”

“Must be nice havin’ someone that _cares._ Not like you’ve ever done ‘nything to be worthy of a good brother.”

“He told me he’s _bored!_ How unfair is that?! I wanna be bored too! But nooo, there’s a stupid war going on.”

“Mebbe ‘f you weren’t sucha burden, war’d be done.”

“Ugh, I’ve got nothing to send back. If I try to write him about how much ‘responsible’ nonsense I’ve been doing, he’ll _really_ be worried about me. I can already hear him. _‘Oh no, my dear Hildie’s been replaced!’_ Then he’d storm Garreg Mach and it’d be _so_ awkward.”

“He’d replace you, ‘nd we’d have someone competent.”

“Hah, can you imagine that? Lorenz would explode! He’d constantly be prostrating at my big brother’s feet. _‘Oh Lord Holst, you’re amazing! Let me wipe your ass for you, it would be my noble honor!’_ Bet he’d wear a maid outfit and everything.”

Claude huffed a tiny, wheezing laugh.

“Hey, maybe I should try and trick Lorenz into a maid outfit sometime. Hm, maybe I could sell him on it as being an ‘outfit to serve the common folk’. Think he’d buy it?”

“Tell ‘im Holst requested he wear it, and… ’m sure he’d buy that…” he whispered, shame tickling the back of his throat.

“That’s it! Haha, we could get Ignatz to paint him wearing it and everything.”

Claude hummed. “Thanks Hilda. ‘M sorry.”

She scratched his scalp. “Has Mister Grumpy gone to bed?”

“Mmhmm. ‘M sorry. Didn’t mean ‘ny of that.” He still hurt so bad. But now he was too tired to try and beg.

“I know. I’m sorry it hurts.”

“Need a light-hearted story to… to regale your brother with? I’ve got a few from when I was lil’, if you wanna hear ‘em.”

Hilda gave a fake gasp. “One of Claude von Riegan’s rare childhood stories? For _me?_ Gasp, what an honor! I’ll treasure the story.”

“Hey, maybe it’ll be a story you hate. Then you can tell Holst _‘you won’t believe the stupid thing Claude told me.’”_

She snorted. “I don't sound like that.”

“Hey Hilda?”

“Yeah?”

“… Is the border okay?”

She sighed. “Claude, don’t worry about the Empire. We’ve got it covered.”

_“The Locket._ ‘S the Locket okay?”

“Aren’t you the one constantly fighting to reduce the Locket’s guard, because quote _‘it’s fiiiine, Hilda, don’t worry so much,’_ unquote.”

“Izzit okay?”

“Yeah. My brother said it’s been eerily silent, actually. You were right.”

He pressed his eyes closed. “Did he say why?”

“Not really. I don’t think he knows. Apparently there was a bit of an uproar with the royal family, or something, but I dunno if that’s why. A disappearance, I think Holst said?”

“Huh. Weird. Wonder what that’s about…” He wondered how his parents were doing. _Damn,_ he needed to get a message to them about his survival.

“Claude… If you want me to stop, just tell me to shut up, okay? Say the word and I’ll never ask you again. But I’ve been wondering something.”

“Will prob’ly tell you to shuddup, but go ‘head.” How was he supposed to get to any of his Almyran contacts? The majority of them weren’t even in Fódlan anymore. He’d sent them all home. The ones that remained weren’t ones he could access while bedridden. Maybe Judith had a backchannel to write to mom? They were childhood friends, so surely Judith had some lines of contact. Shit, _Judith._ She was going to kill him.

Hilda was silent for a moment. “Have you been to Almyra?”

He sighed. The plans attempting and failing to formulate in his head about his parents dissipated into smoke. His spacey attention completely shifted to Hilda. “Why do you ask?”

“Well for one, you left both Lorenz and I _contacts_ that are in Almyra.” He winced. “Is that why you’ve been so tight-lipped about your past, Claude?”

“There’re plenty of ways to get contacts, y’know.”

She ran a thumb along his back. He resigned himself. She thumbed over a _very specific_ part of his back. His shoulder blade. His King’s Mark. “It’s okay if you’ve been there, Claude,” she whispered. 

“And if I lived there?” he whispered back, just as quiet.

“That’s fine too.”

His eyes slid shut. He listened to Begalta’s heartbeat over his chest. He listened to his own heartbeat, nearly indistinguishable from Begalta’s. He listened to Hilda’s, pressed up against his back.

Her fingers continued to circle against his back. “Is this a brand, Claude?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

He opened his eyes, staring straight ahead at nothing. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“I still am.”

“‘S just a mark, Hils.”

“I bet it wasn’t a willing one, though.”

“Mm, well, no. Never asked for it.”

“This is a brand, Claude. I don’t understand how you can be so flippant about Almyrans.”

He blinked, frowning. He cursed his sluggish mind. “What’dya mean by that?”

“They _branded_ you Claude. If I was branded, I would arm myself to the teeth and never let them get close. Or let someone _else_ fight them for me. But you don’t seem to hate them for what they did. For branding you as a slave.”

_As a…_ Oh. Hilda thought it was a slave brand. He snorted. And then laughed. And then he was laughing hard. His ribs screamed at him, but he couldn’t stop laughing. For just a moment, he forgot how awful he felt and lost it.

Hilda started shaking him. “Claude? Are you alright?!”

“Hahaha, oh Stars! I’m fine, you thought— hah! You thought— Hahaha!”

“Claude…?” There was an uncertain worry to her voice that brought him back.

“Ahah, ohhh wow, hah, haven’t laughed like that in, hah, ever. Ooh, that hurt, hah. Probably shouldn’ta done that. Ow, ouch. Hoo… okay, okay. 'M good. Pfff, heheh.”

“Claude.”

He panted, out of breath. _Ow,_ that seriously hurt. Stupid of him. “Heheh, sorry. ‘S not a slave brand. Tha’s an Albenian thing, Almyrans don’t do slave brands.”

She frowned. “Oh. I don’t see how that’s so funny.”

“Pff, you just sounded so— so concerned. Caught me off guard. Hah, slave brand.” Hilda thought his King’s Mark, a sign that he could potentially become _king,_ meant he was a former _slave._ He couldn’t stop another fit of breathless giggles.

_“Claude.”_

“Heheh, no need to be angry. It’s—” he was about to call it a burden, or maybe a duty. A sign of fate. It didn’t shackle him to the throne, as he could reject his birthright if he so chose, but it did tie him to it. It placed expectations on his shoulders. But he thought about the Guiding King star. His ancestor. _Heh,_ the star that called him _‘grandson’._ The mark that mixed so well and so terribly with his crest. The symbol of the energy that saved his life countless times, and also left him so painfully withered.

He smiled fondly. “‘S a gift from my gramps.”

_“Um,_ your grandfather _branded_ you?! Like, the former _Duke Riegan?!_ ”

He snickered. “Not him, other side of th’ family. Not how you’re thinking. Was painless, don’ worry.” Considering he’d been born with it.

Her face twisted. “Um… o-kaaay. That’s not usually a ‘gift’, Claude.”

He burst into another fit of wheezing. “Well, gramps isn’t very usual! Ha! It’s hilarious ‘n context, I promise!”

She groaned. “Context you’ll never give me.”

“Aw, don’t look so glum!”

She groaned louder. “Well, I’m glad you find it funny.”

“Heh… I’ll explain it to you one day.” His smile grew sad. He wasn’t looking forward to the day he would have to tell her he needed to leave everyone to go fight for the Almyran throne. It was a date fast approaching. “Promise.”

“A promise to explain a mystery? Wow, are you still Claude? Seriously, I don’t think you’ve _ever_ promised to explain something. That’s a lot, coming from you.”

He huffed. “You have no idea…” He wondered if she would believe him. It was probably the pain fogging his good sense, but he thought that she might.

“No, I really don’t have any idea. That’s why you promised to explain it to me, dummy.”

“Hehe… yeah. Wow, my chest hurts.”

“Huh, I wonder why." She sighed, wrapping her arms around his chest. It didn't help much with the pain, but the warmth was very comfortable. "So, about that childhood story you _also_ promised me.”

“Mmm… oh… yeah. Hm…”

“Claude?”

“Mm… how ‘bout… story of… Lost city of… mmm… ”

He heard Hilda sigh as his eyelids slid shut. “It can wait, I suppose…”

“Hmm…?”

“You don’t even realize you're falling asleep, do you.”

“‘M not…” 

“Sweet dreams, Claude.”


	25. Of masks, armor, and coffins || Of running, distance, and silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's jarring to go back and forth writing between this fic (sad), Swift Hooves (both sad and cute at the same time), and Chick Magnet (cute). Especially the former and latter. In one tab I write about the soul-crushing reality of terminal illness, the dehumanization and stripping of autonomy that near-total starvation causes, and pain-fueled lashing out at loved ones. Then I switch tab and write about Claude being buried in fuzzy animals that adore him.

He woke to evening light streaming through the window. He mentally grappled with his memories, head stuffed full of cotton from sleep. It was thursday. No… friday? Friday, it must be friday. Unless it was still wednesday?

His brain slowly kicked into gear as he woke up further. He was feeling surprisingly coherent for once. Best he’d felt in a long while, actually. Best since this whole thing started. He was still starving, still freezing, still aching, but otherwise he felt… not good, but decent. The pain was manageable.

He heaved out a sigh. He was waking up on his own more often now. His body was getting into the rhythm of being fed every two hours. Marianne told him his hunger should start decreasing— or at least adhering to a schedule soon. He hoped she was right, because he was more than sick of the endless hunger eating at his sanity.

He was steadily gaining weight. Unfortunately, ‘steady’ didn’t mean fast. It meant  _ slow. _ Too slow. There were slight changes in his body, but no earth shattering miracles. If he wanted to enact the barebone plans that swam through his head any time soon, he needed at least the bare minimum of his health. The deadline of Enbarr was bearing down on him like a physical weight. He  _ refused _ to allow his friends to face the end of the war without him. Not now that he wasn’t dying.

_ How _ he would help, on the other hand… that was a work in progress. Thinking was a lot harder now than it used to be. Schemes, strategies, tricks… everything beyond the most simplistic of plans fluttered beyond his grasp. Even coherent thought was sometimes beyond him. But he still had time. Not much, but he had time. He would figure something out. He always did.

He twitched his neck, trying to see who sat watching vigil over him today. His muscles were still entirely non-existent. He couldn’t even begin therapy in his state, given he was only just squeaking past the line between life and death. One misstep from him and he’d be right back to balancing on that line again. Nonetheless, whenever he was able to, he did his best to ‘exercise’. The most he could manage was contracting and relaxing his withered muscles, and not much at that. The fact that merely  _ flexing _ once or twice wore him out for hours was just another painful reminder of how far he had left to recover.

He heaved his neck to the side. With effort, he turned his head. It was the smallest of things, but to him it tasted like triumph. 

He blinked at the seat beside his bed. For the first time, it was empty. It wasn’t until he heard the faint  _ scritch-scratch _ of a quill on paper that he realized whoever was watching him was doing work over at Rhea’s desk. He twisted his neck just a little further to see who it was, grunting with the effort. The scratching stopped as Teach turned to look at him.

He grinned. It was good to see them. “Hey, my friend. My no-heartbeat pal! We should start a club.”

Teach spared him a small smile in return, setting down their quill. Abandoning their work at the desk, they sat by his bedside. 

“Mm, you don’t need to stop working on account of lil ol’ me.”

“Marianne says you’re getting better.” Their smile crumpled. “I’m sorry.”

Claude groaned. “Nope, no apologies. Not your fault.”

“I wish it was,” Teach whispered, looking down at him. It was odd to remember how expressionless they’d once been. A thousand emotions swam behind their eyes. “I wish there was someone to blame. Anger is less painful than this. You almost died.”

Familiar guilt thrummed through him. “Hey now, I’m still here. And I’m getting better! There’s no use in worrying about things that didn’t happen.”

“You set everything up to conclude without you. You knew you were dying.”

“My dream is in safe hands with you.” Safer than in anyone else’s hands, at least.

“It won’t be your dream without you, Claude. You know I’ll do what I can, but— I’m not you.”

Claude just smiled. Of course he would rather see his dream himself. Of course he wanted that, desperately so. But for so long he assumed— no, he  _ knew _ he wouldn’t be around to finish it. Now though…

Now maybe he would see his dream with his own eyes.

“You didn’t tell me.” Teach’s quiet voice brought his mind back to the present.

He heaved a sigh, unable to meet their eyes. “Look, Lorenz already yelled at me for this. I’m not sorry. Maybe it was selfish, but I didn’t want my last days to be filled with pity.”

“I’m not going to yell at you,” they murmured. “Do you remember what you told me just before Edelgard attacked Garreg Mach the first time?” The memory was over five years old, but he still remembered. _“‘No matter who or what you really are, I’ll always be on your side. You can’t count on much in this world, but you can count on that.’”_ Teach repeated his words without a single stutter, with a level of reverence he found incredible. “That’s what you told me. You can’t be on my side if you’re dead.”

He heaved a sigh. “I tried my best, okay? I don’t want me to be dead either, you know.”

Teach rustled through their pockets, pulling out a familiar gleaming crystal. The mixed symbols of Begalta’s crest and his King’s Mark shone along the surface, a siren’s call to him. “I held onto this, just like you asked. Am I allowed to ask what it is?”

Claude mulled over the request. His gut instinct was  _ no, of course not. _ But this was  _ Teach. _ Didn’t they deserve what few answers he could give them? And… if he was honest with himself, he wanted to tell someone about his trip through the stars. Maybe Teach wouldn’t believe him, maybe they would. Teach had a literal Goddess inside of them at one point, so surely they could believe his story?

So he told them. He told them about Begalta, how her soul rested in Failnaught and how she spoke to him. He told them about his experience with the Wind Caller and what came of that. He told them about his hazy dream-walk among the stars as he died. About how he came face-to-face with a legend and myth that slept amidst the night sky. He repeated what he could remember of the entity's words. He told them about how his ancestor pressed the dragonstone into his hands, the very same dragonstone that sat in Teach’s hands. He told them about packets of information that were left behind his eyelids that sometimes sprang to life with a mind of their own.

He didn’t tell them  _ everything. _ But he told them near enough to everything.

At the end of his story he closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see any trace of doubt in Teach’s eyes.

“I spoke with her, I think. Begalta.”

Claude frowned. “Huh? How?”

Teach told him about how Begalta spoke  _ through _ him. How she mistook Teach for her mother, how she called Seteth her brother. About how desperate and determined she was to save him.

He felt pulses of confirmation drifting from Begalta as Teach continued their story. Even if he didn’t remember it, he knew it was true. Gratitude welled up inside of him. She never gave up on him, even when he gave up himself. Begalta responded with an avalanche of gooey love. It was a struggle to keep his lips from curling into a dopey smile as she buried his mind in her feelings. It was a nice distraction from the pain, at least.

“You said that the star you met— he mentioned Sothis? That she vanished a long time ago?”

_ Teach believed him. _ “You caught that tid-bit too then. Yeah. Wish I had the presence of mind to ask him more about that. I’m sorry, my friend.”

Teach shook their head. “No apologies.”

Claude spared them a grin. “Fair enough. So, we know that Sothis shared your headspace until you merged with her. We know that Rhea did something to you as a baby, and that you have no heartbeat. We know that Sothis was mother to the Nabateans.” This, he knew with a strange clarity. Nevermind the hints Macuil alluded to about his ‘mother’. Claude knew in his bones that Sothis was Begalta’s mother— or rather, perhaps he knew in  _ her _ bones? “Though why Begalta confuses you for Sothis herself is odd. Then there’s the whole deal with the Nabateans… a nigh immortal dragon race with the power to grant crests, most of which are dead.” He paused. “Hm, what killed them? Eegh, that’s a scary thought. What was strong enough to slay an entire race of god-like beings? Something tells me it wasn’t ‘time’ like gramps said it was for them…”

Teach hummed. “I hadn’t thought about that…”

“I bet Seteth knows. Though, he’ll probably be pissed that I told you all of this. But if anyone should know, it’s you.”

“I don’t have the same mastery of ferreting out secrets that you do… but I’ll see what I can pull off.”

Claude preened under the complement. “My friend, you always know how to flatter me.” He sighed, hating the fact that he was lucid enough to feel how foggy his thoughts were. “There’s all these puzzle pieces, but for the life of me I can’t tell how they’re all connected. Why and how are you connected to the Goddess? You said that you physically saw Sothis when she was with you, right?”

Teach nodded, expression falling.

“That’s different than with me and Begalta. Never seen her. Hell, I barely even know what her voice sounds like aside from her whispers. I just feel her emotions, mostly. Maybe Sothis was stronger, because she was the ‘Progenitor God’. It can’t be from a creststone— the Sword of the Creator doesn’t even have one. Plus you saw Sothis before you got the sword. Gah, I feel so close to an answer, yet so far away.” He smacked his lips. His throat was getting sore from talking so much.

Teach patted his forehead. “Thank you. I know you’ll figure it out— you have a way with mysteries. But you should rest for now. I’m in no rush to learn the truth about myself. It’ll happen when it happens.”

Claude snorted. “That was overly wise, even for you. Settling into the role of archbishop finally?”

Teach rewarded him with a roll of their eyes.

“You’re right though. After we take Enbarr, if we find Rhea… she’ll have answers. Until then, I have a little idea.” He winked. He might be recovering from dying, but his brain never stopped churning. “You said Begalta recognized you. Try holding her. Seteth did a while back. He couldn’t hear anything, but Begalta definitely recognized him.”

After a moment of hesitation Teach peeled back the layers of blankets over his chest. He made sure to keep the discomfort from his face even as what little heat he produced escaped. Their hand hovered over the creststone for a moment.

Begalta perked up at their touch, trickles of honey-like affection and hazy nostalgia draining into him. A sense of safety curled around his heart like a thick blanket. He couldn’t blame Begalta for feeling safe around them— Teach exuded a reassuring aura to those they were close with.

“Why don’t you take her out for a walk?” Claude found himself saying, as though walking a weapon was the same as walking a dog. He felt a small blip of  _ annoyance _ that he was sure was from Begalta. He bit back a snicker— Begalta didn’t appreciate being compared to a dog. “Or maybe shoot a few arrows. She’s very comfortable with you. The only other person she’s been this cozy with is Seteth.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah. Haven’t needed her to regulate my heart at all since my little jaunt among the stars. I think she’s feeling a little restless cooped up in here with me.” A twirl of emotions threaded through him, half his and half hers. A mix of  _ protectiveness, confusion, longing,  _ and  _ excitement. _ In truth, she wasn’t the one that was feeling cooped up— that was all him. “Take her out, and then it’ll be like I’m getting a breath of fresh air when you bring her back.”  _ Understanding _ threaded through him as well as a note of  _ light playfulness. _

He had been hatching a plan to get her to ‘socialize’ more, mostly with Seteth. Her consciousness was still tenuous, he could tell. Her memories were sparse. But her grasp on life was growing stronger. Recently she had started whispering full words to him rather than just the bursts of feelings she usually gave off. It was rare, but it was progress. He could swear he saw her in his dreams sometimes too.

Teach nodded. “I suppose I can do that. Can she hear me?”

“She hears pretty well. Her sight isn’t great, but she can see some of the time.” A faint thought of forest danced along the back of his mind. “Would you mind taking a walk through the forest nearby?”  _ Excitement _ thrummed through him. She liked trees, apparently.

Teach carefully took Begalta in their hands. He squashed the little feeling of loneliness that he felt at Begalta’s lost weight. He couldn’t even blame the feeling on her now.

“If you’re not worried about looking a little weird if someone stumbles onto your walk, she likes it when people talk to her,” Claude added.

Teach gently placed Begalta over their shoulder, letting the creststone rest over their heart— the same way Claude did. “Oh,” they murmured. They tilted their head. “I can’t hear her exactly, but I felt… something. It’s very faint but I think it was a greeting?”

Claude grinned. “Fascinating. I’ve noticed myself that it’s easier to hear her if she’s close to my heart. Must be the same for you. Anything else? She’s usually pretty vocal— emotionally speaking.”

Teach was silent, their expression focused. “No, I feel nothing. Maybe…” They frowned. “Ah, wait, I hear…” They paused. “Yelling?”

Claude felt a bubble of concern. “Yelling?” Begalta didn’t yell. That was probably bad.

Teach tilted their head towards the door, their brow relaxing. “Oh, nevermind.” Straining his hearing, he could faintly hear the yelling as well. Yelling that was getting closer. “It seems that you may be having an unexpected visitor.”

“Are we talking good visitor or bad visitor?”

“That depends.”

He heard a crash.

“Hm…. that sounds like a bad visitor,” Claude mused.

“—ullshit! I know he’s here!”

“Oh no.” He recognized that voice. “Teach, quick. Shove me out the window. I’ll take my chances with the fall.”

“I’m not doing that.”

There was another crash and more yelling.

“I… could barricade the door?” Teach suggested.

Claude sighed, feeling his fast approaching doom. Maybe now was a good time for a nap… “No, she’ll never let that stop her. She won’t quit unless she can’t find me. Ah! That’s perfect, Teach— hide me under the bed!”

“I’m not doing that either.”

“C’mon, there’s plenty of room! Just tell her I skipped town.”

“Claude—”

The bedroom doors burst open. He squeezed his eyes shut, sinking into the bed as much as possible. Maybe if the Stars were looking out for him, the bed would swallow him whole.

Time to confront his cowardice. 

* * *

“Oh, hello Lady Judith.”

“Ignatz. You’re in a hurry.”

Ignatz gave her a somewhat sheepish smile. “Yes. I’m late, unfortunately. I was supposed to be on the third floor ten minutes ago. It’s not like me to lose track of time, but I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

She huffed. “Don’t we all.”

Ignatz winced. “Sorry, that was insensitive of me. I’m aware that it’s harder for those of you stepping up to fill Claude’s shoes.” He sighed, unaware of the anger that resurfaced within her. “It’s incredible all he did for the Alliance. I’m sure I can’t even see all of it, not from where I am, but according to Lorenz—”

“Enough. You can do better than lick his boots.” Ignatz flinched. Most of Claude’s former classmates did when she let her anger bite back. “How you still have even a shred of respect for that boy, I’ll never understand.”   


His lips pressed thin. “If anything, I have more respect for him than ever.”

She gave a bark of laughter. “That so? Are you even aware of what he did?” She wanted to keep going, wanted to taint the happy memories Ignatz had with the former Duke. But she stopped herself. That kind of anger was pointless. No need to spread the poison that Claude left running through her veins. 

“We may not understand it, but I respect the sacrifice he’s endured for us. I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling…” He took a deep breath. “Lady Judith, I mean no disrespect. I know you’re angry about the situation. I understand— we all do.”  _ What a load of crap. _ “I’m angry at myself. I saw some of the signs, but I never acted on them. Claude’s always seemed so untouchable. But, you shouldn’t blame yourself for not seeing the signs. He didn’t want us—”

“Blame myself?”  _ Hah. _ She blamed herself for being blinded by sentiment. For so foolishly putting her faith in someone like Claude. For falling for the same trick  _ twice. _ She knew better, but she still fell for it. “That’s rich. The only one I blame is the boy that abandoned his duty. I’m done talking about him.”

“Wait!” Ignatz called to her even as she turned on her heel. Unfortunately, he decided to walk beside her. “Lady Judith, you’ve been avoiding him.” She eyed the archer, his words not quite making sense. She watched as he looked around. Eyes scanning for any potential eavesdroppers, if she had to guess. His tone lowered to a hush. “You deserve space, if that’s what you want. But, Enbarr is going to be dangerous. You’re capable, and out of all of us, I’m sure you’ll survive. Yet accidents can happen. Don’t you think you should speak with him, before it’s too late? Wouldn’t it be better to at least try and reconcile, rather than die with regret? I know you’re hurting, and that Claude is important to y—”

“I said my piece to him,” she interrupted.

Ignatz heaved an angry sigh. “But what about him? If you got hurt, he’d never forgive himself.”

“Hah! If he cared, he’d still be here,” Judith hissed.

“It’s not like he’s dead. He’s still with us.”

Judith stopped. “Excuse me?”

“Just because he’s… indisposed, that doesn’t mean he’s gone.” There was something aflame in Ignatz’s eyes. A fire so different from the bitterness that burned in her own. “I was headed to see him, but if you’d like to go instead—”

**“What.”**

Ignatz flinched. “Lady Judith?”

She whirled on him, snatching him by the collar. Ignatz put up no resistance, his face split with surprise. “The boy. He’s  _ here?!” _

“Yes? You— you knew that. Didn’t you? You’re surely aware of his—”

She didn’t let him finish, shoving him away instead.  _ The third floor. _ That’s where Ignatz said he was going. That’s where  _ Claude _ was. She stormed off, ignoring the way Ignatz shouted after her.

He came back. Her teeth ground together. That  _ irresponsible child _ came back. Did he think he could just  _ abandon _ everything for two weeks? No, clearly he wasn’t  _ back _ back. She knew Claude (or, she  _ thought _ she did). If he was  _ really _ back, he would have flown through the gates, made a great, grand return. He would have milked every ounce of drauma. 

She was going to throttle him. He should know better. Last time she saw him, she’d been forced to leave the room before she did something she would regret. This time? She would give him a black eye to wear back home. Two, maybe. Knock loose some teeth. Ruin his lying smile.

The anger that swirled inside was more potent than ever. Over the weeks since she’d last seen him, her rage simmered into something bitter. Judith wasn’t the sort to stew in her emotions. To do so wasn’t productive, especially not in wartime. When she was angry, she moved forward. Whether that was punching the source of that anger or getting over herself, she never let her emotions drag her down. She cut a path forward using them, not miring herself in the past.

The longer this anger sat in her gut, the worse it soured. She knew why. The worst part was, she should have expected this.

She still remembered the day she first laid eyes on a 16-year-old Claude. Tanned skin, dark brown hair so wavy it was almost curly, bright grin smiling at everything and nothing. Tiana’s eyes, Tiana’s face. She never needed to ask— Claude was Tiana’s son. That day had been a happy and bittersweet one. 

She was happy for Tiana. What little she dragged out of Claude over the years pointed to the fact that he loved his parents and that his parents loved him just as fiercely. That Tiana was happy, that she had a husband that she loved and that loved her back. Judith was happy that Tiana well and truly  _ made it. _

It would have been nice if she wrote, though. Just once. It would have saved Judith two decades of heartbreak, of not knowing what happened to her sister-in-all-but-blood.  _ Tiana had to be dead, _ she’d told herself all of those years, because she would have told Judith if she wasn’t. Tiana had her reasons for silence. Judith understood. It hurt, but she understood. She soothed some of the hurt with Tiana’s son. It helped some that Claude knew of her, had grown up on tales of her and Tiana’s adventures. A bandage to a gut wound.

She saw Claude as her own nephew. Even through her rage, as she stomped towards the stairwell to the third floor, she loved him. That was why it hurt so much. She thought that Claude, for all of his secrets, understood that. Thought that maybe, deep in that guarded heart of his, he saw her as his aunt.

She knew Claude lied like he breathed. That was another hurt— to see Tiana’s son as such a scarred young boy. Claude never spoke about it, not to her. Not to anyone, she had to assume. But someone or something  _ deeply _ hurt that boy, over and over again until he forgot what it meant to sleep without a dagger. Claude loved Tiana and his father (whoever the fuck that guy was) but that love hadn’t been enough to protect him. Judith wondered where Tiana went wrong. Wondered why her child had been forced to hide himself so thoroughly.

She wondered if there was anyone underneath all those masks of his. She wondered if Claude had spent so long crafting masks that he never learned how to stop. She wondered if those masks ever became too tight. She wondered if he even trusted the air around him. She wondered if his layers of masks formed armor to protect him, or if they resembled a human-shaped coffin instead. She wondered if under all those masks was a boy, trapped and suffocated inside an impenetrable shell. She wondered, if that coffin were to be cracked open, what was inside. Would there be a young boy? A rotten corpse? Bones? Would it be entirely hollow? Sometimes, she wondered if there would be grooves desperately clawed on the inside of his masks. She wondered about that boy trapped inside. Wondered what he thought as he realized the fortress that he worked so hard to protect himself with also trapped him within. She wondered if there had ever been a person in there at all. 

She’d thought she knew Claude. She thought that, on those rare occasions where his mask seemed to slip away, that she’d seen the real Claude underneath. A boy so lonely and hurt that he didn’t know what to do with himself but believe in what he dubbed a ‘pipe dream’ that he refused to tell anyone about. So desperate for any reason to keep going, to make the world better, for a reason to be. 

But that had been another mask, apparently.

She was angry at Claude. She was angry at Tiana. She was angry at herself, because apparently she didn’t learn her  _ damned  _ lesson the first time. Apparently she’d never been important to Tiana. Not important enough to be told she was leaving, that she was alive, that she even  _ remembered _ Judith at all.  _ Nothing! _ Had every second of their friendship meant nothing?! Didn’t Judith deserve at  _ least _ a letter? Even if it had been two decades late, delivered by her son— even a  _ message passed along! A  _ **_word!_ ** If Claude had told her  _ ‘Mom says hello,’ _ that would have been enough. It would have been  _ something. _

Like mother, like son.

She’d been so proud of Tiana’s son. She’d grown to love him not just as Tiana’s son, but for himself too. That boy worked himself to the bone. He went above and beyond what she thought was even possible, let alone for someone of his age and reputation. He was brilliant and endlessly curious. She’d  _ thought _ that deep down he had a bleeding heart. But it seemed that was another mask, one to get her loyalty. It worked, in the end. She would have died for him and his cause. 

She knew he’d leave some day. She thought that  _ this time _ she’d get a goodbye. Maybe even a promise to write. That  _ this time _ she’d get the chance to say goodbye back. She would have hugged him until his ribs creaked, told him how proud of him she was, and told him that she’d always back him if he needed her, no matter what. She would have ruffled his hair, told him to say hello to Tiana for her, and that he better visit sometime. Maybe he would have hugged her back, or maybe his face would flush with embarrassment, or maybe he would have stared back at her with a dead smile and even deader eyes.

It grated to realize how thoroughly he manipulated her. Like mother, like son.  Fool her once, shame on Tiana. Fool her twice, shame on Judith.

Ignatz was still trailing her, she realized as she ascended the third floor. She wasn’t listening to a word he said. She didn’t know what she was going to say to Claude. She wondered what mask he would present her with this time. It wouldn’t matter. He could burst into crocodile tears for all she cared. None of his masks would save him.

“Please, just wait!” Ignatz slid in front of her, blocking the grand door of Rhea’s old room. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding!”

“Bullshit!” she shouted. If Ignatz thought his words or his body would stop her from seeing Claude, he was wrong. “I know he’s here!” She threw Ignatz to the side and out of the way.

She kicked the door open. “Lady Judith, please, you can’t—” She slammed the door in Ignatz’s face.

“Boy!” Weeks of anger boiled over into a sea of red haze. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about you coming back after abandoning your post, you irresponsible—” she paused, taking in the room. There was no Claude. Byleth blinked at her. There was a sick man (or perhaps a corpse) laying on the large bed. She wrangled her anger under control, smoothing out her expression into something flat. “My apologies. It seems I’m in the wrong room.”

“Lady Judith,” Byleth greeted. “Please don’t shout. Can I help you?”

She hissed a breath through her teeth. “My bad. Didn’t realize Lady Rhea’s room was remade into an infirmary.” She eyed the emaciated corpse swallowed in blankets. The blankets were pulled back to reveal the gruesome sight of his chest, ribs sticking out to an alarming degree. She’d seen starving dogs with more meat on them than this man. If it weren’t for the slow rise and fall of his chest, shallow as it was, she wouldn’t believe him to be alive. She hadn’t known it was  _ possible _ to look that sick. “What’s wrong with that poor sod?”

“He’s recovering.” Judith was skeptical, but really, she didn’t care.

The man’s expression twitched. Something about him looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “I’m looking for Claude. I  _ know _ he’s back.” She crossed her arms, leveling her best glare at Byleth. A bit pointless to try and intimidate them. Her eyes narrowed as she took note of a  _ familiar _ bow in their lap.  _ Ah. _ So  _ that _ was why the boy came back. Pawning off House Riegan’s relic, it seemed. Must’ve gotten back to Almyra and received scorn for the eerie bow. Yet, it was odd that he parted from it. He’d been reluctant with Failnaught in the beginning, but he’d grown attached to the weapon. She still remembered catching him whispering to it like he was telling a friend about his day. She’d had good reason to worry about his level of loneliness, back then. 

She wondered if maybe he meant for her to see that. So worried about his mental health, she’d started coming by more, offering more support— both from herself and her House.

The sick man took in a long breath before letting it out, rattling through his lips. A sigh, maybe. She winced again. Seemed she woke him up.

Byleth stood, wrapping Failnaught in their cloak. They nodded to the bed. Without a word, they went to leave.

“Hey!” Judith whirled to follow them. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Foot out the door, Byleth nodded at Ignatz, forming a ‘give me’ gesture. The shame-faced Ignatz startled, then reached into his coat. He pulled out a capped glass jar of white liquid, passing it to Byleth. Byleth passed it to Judith, much to her confusion. They pointed back at the bed. “He needs to eat one of these every two hours. If he looks like he’s asleep right now, he’s pretending.”

There was a groan from the bed. It was a wretched sound.

“For a bed-bound individual, he’s very good at running away if you let him.”

Then they were gone, closing the door with a click. Judith stared at the wood, then down at the glass jar. She white-knuckled the jar, rage rising up again. Byleth had the bow. The boy was probably already gone. She grit her teeth. If Byleth thought she was going to play  _ nursemaid _ while Claude made his merry escape, they had another thing coming.

She whirled, snarling. The hell did she care about some sod so close to death he couldn’t even feed himself? Who cared about—

Two familiar spots of glowing green twinkled at her. The sick man stared at her with Claude’s eyes. He didn’t have Claude’s smile— the man wasn’t smiling at all. He didn’t have Claude’s face— those cheeks were too defined, too bony to be his. He didn’t have Claude’s body— not a scrap of muscle or meat, nothing capable of pulling back the string of a training bow. But he had Claude’s eyes.

That wretched face twisted into a mockery of a smile, a withered parody of Claude’s grin. There was a wry twist that Claude would never show to anyone. A bitterness, perhaps. Pain, maybe. “Hey Judith,” Claude’s voice crackled, echoing from the broken man’s throat. “How’s it going?”

She almost dropped the jar in her hands. She stood there, staring at the man. An illusion? A prank, some sort of  _ scheme? _ She didn’t understand. 

“I must look awful to leave you speechless, huh?” His voice, ragged and tired, hung in the air between them. “I promise it looks worse than it is.”

_ “What—” _ her voice cracked, anger and horror and confusion and a concoction of emotions leaving her reeling. “What sort of sick joke is this?”

His lips twisted ever so slightly further. “Heh. I might be sick, but this isn’t funny ‘nough to be a joke.” The smile fell from his face completely. “Please don’t cry.”

“Cry?” She took a step forward, her face twisting. Weeks of rage came roaring back with a vengeance. _ “Cry?!  _ The  _ hell _ is this?! What did you do?!” She loomed over him. He looked tiny. He looked nothing like his mask as the Cunning Duke. Not the Master Tactician. Not the Tired Negotiator. Not the Hopeful Fool, not the Endless Dreamer, not the Cheerful Prankster, not the Paranoid Schemer, not Ambition Incarnate, not even the rare Scared Boy. He looked tired. He looked sickly. He looked  _ sad. _ Her voice fell to a whisper against her will. “What the  _ hell _ happened.”

He sighed. She didn’t understand. This had to be a trick. How could he get  _ this _ bad in two weeks? “You can vent at me. Won’t be the first. C’mon, let's hear it.”

_ This is real, _ she realized. Snippets of overheard conversations— things she dismissed as unimportant— washed over her. She remembered the despair of those closest to Claude. No anger aimed towards their missing leader from any of them, something that had confused and enraged her at the time. No, it had been an air of  _ mourning.  _ Of grief and fear. 

_“What will we do without him?”_ Judith recalled Hilda asking Byleth. _“What if he doesn’t come back from this?”_ She remembered stumbling onto a sobbing Hilda, tucked into the corner of a hallway. She remembered her anger, lashing out at Hilda. She’d been so angry that Hilda thought him worth shedding tears for. There was no time for tears in war, especially not when they were missing their leader.

She remembered Linhardt and Lysithea and Flayn going back and forth with theory that went far over her head, the frazzled and sleep-deprived state of them. She remembered Linhardt’s half undone hair-bun, Lysthea’s quiet resignation and defeat, Flayn’s tear streaked face. She remembered their frantic discussion about restarting a heart. Judith had assumed it was a theoretical. 

She remembered Raphael bringing her a plate of food, his face full of understanding that she hadn’t understood.  _ “Gotta keep your strength up,” _ he told her,  _ “even when it hurts.” _ She’d seen him do the same for the rest of them.

She remembered Seteth laying a hand on her arm.  _ “We are all hurting,” _ he told her.  _ “I know you two are close. If you wish to speak with anyone…” _ She’d left before he could finish, too angry to reply.

It all slotted together. All the signs she’d been willfully ignoring. Just like that, the anger left her at once. The constant storm raging inside of her for  _ weeks _ vanished. Her knees buckled as she slid into the chair at his bedside. Her body felt numb. The everpresent anger was gone, and she didn’t know what to feel.

“Say somethin’, will ya?”

She wanted to ask a thousand questions all at once, yet nothing came to mind. She grappled for  _ anything. _ Anger, sadness, fear, happiness,  _ anything. _ She didn’t know what to feel. “You’re dying.”

_ “Was!” _ He practically shouted in his hoarse voice. His chest heaved, his face touched with pain. “I  _ was _ dying. This‘s me a full week on the mend.” He paused, frowning. He looked  _ confused. _ “Maybe. Maybe… a bit longer than that? Gettin’ better every day. Ask Marianne if you don’t believe me.”

“How long?” she grit out. Claude sighed, glancing away. _No,_ she thought, _not this._ _Why couldn’t you have left. That would have been better than death._ She could handle betrayal. This? This was worse. She'd been prepared for any of his excuses. She hadn't been prepared for the truth. “How long?”

“Don’t blame yourself,” he started with.  _ Not a good sign. _ “Six years. Maybe more, dep’nding how you slice it.”

She blinked. “Looking like  _ that? _ You don’t look like you’ve got six days left, let alone six years.”

He frowned at her, his face again transforming into something so  _ not-Claude _ that it was like looking at a stranger.  _ Claude _ never looked openly confused,  _ Claude _ never allowed his expression to look so lost. Then understanding seemed to trickle into his eyes. He smiled ever so slightly. “Thought you meant how long I’ve been sick.” Those words struck her like a blow to the gut, some bit of  _ pain _ slipping past the numb haze. She remembered the gauntness of Claude’s face. The times when he seemed to vanish for no reason. Remembered thinking something was wrong with him, no idea what.  _ Six years. _ That was how long she’d known him. Had he been dying since the day he stepped foot on Fódlan soil?

“How long do you have left?” she asked. She didn’t want to know.

“Providin’ nothing goes wrong…” He trailed off, giving her a tired yet hopeful smile. “I’ll live a full life. Heh, not bad, huh? They call me the Undying for a reason, y’know…”

She stared at his chest. He looked like he might die any minute. How did he hide this for six years? She remembered the rumors of how at Merceus he’d been stabbed a thousand times without faltering. She remembered Ailell where he’d been impaled with the grace of someone who idly remembered he forgot to feed his dog before he left the house. She remembered how he shrugged off his mortal wound like an annoying bug bite.

He wasn’t shrugging this off.

“Not pretty, am I?” He heaved out a shuddering breath. “Not to sound like a kid, but can you tuck the blanket over me? ‘M freezing. Can’t really keep warm ‘nymore.”

She looked into his eyes, still glowing for reasons he never explained to her. She wondered if that had something to do with his condition. She wondered if his claim of living a ‘full life’ was another lie. “Are you truly so sick that you can’t do it yourself?” She wasn’t sure what kind of tone she meant to have. She didn’t mean for her voice to be so filled with horror, though.

“Does it look like I got the muscle tone left for that?”

No, he didn’t. “You let me think you went back home,” she whispered. She felt something building under her numbness. “You planned on dying.”

“Not… ‘planned’, ‘xactly. Didn’t have a choice.”

“You let me believe you were leaving.” Her voice dipped dangerously. “My last words to you would have been filled with scorn.”

“J-Judith, I…”

She laughed. She wasn’t sure why. Yet it was funny. “You’re just like your mother,” she choked, her throat constricting. She grit her teeth. The anger was returning. It wasn’t the never ending torrent like before but rather starbursts that popped through her vision. “Did she ever tell you the last thing she said to me?”

“I… no?”

She grinned, baring her teeth. “We had a fight. We’re both stubborn, so we fought sometimes. We always made up. She was my best friend.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I told her she was living in a fantasy world, that she needed to stop fucking around and either take charge or give her responsibilities to someone that would. She glared at me, then smiled. She told me she’d consider what I said. Then she said,  _ “I’ll see you tomorrow.” _ Those were her last words to me. I thought she was dead until the day you showed up.” She laughed again. “We were 23 then too, you know.”

“You… thought she was dead?”

“Hah! For two  _ damned _ decades! What was I supposed to think? She didn’t tell me shit!” Judith covered her face with her hands. “I lived with the guilt that I drove my best friend to her death for two decades. And now you try to pull the  _ same damned shit?!” _ She stood suddenly, bursting from her seat, unable to contain the rush of  _ rage. _ She snarled down at him.

He looked up at her with tired, half-lidded eyes.  _ He’s so small. _ Her anger— anger born of 26 years— crumpled. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so quiet. “I didn’t know.”

She slumped back down, her shoulders falling as the fight left her bones. “Don’t apologize for your mother. I shouldn’t be taking this out on you.”

“Judith… I, I’m really cold…”

Guilt slammed into her. Here she was yelling at Claude on his sickbed. She began with his sheets, tucking those over him. Then blanket by blanket, she meticulously tucked him in. There were an absurd amount of blankets. “Warmer now?”

“Mmm… thanks.”

She rested her palm on his cheek, running her thumb across his forehead. He hummed, closing his eyes. “You look tired.”

“Heh. ‘M always tired now… Tired, ‘n cold, ‘n hungry…”

_ More guilt. _ For  _ Claude _ to admit any form of weakness, it must be truly awful. His mention of hunger reminded her of the jar Byleth handed her. Glancing down at her feet, she realized she dropped it at some point. Lucky it didn’t shatter. She picked it up. “This might make you feel a bit less hungry, huh?”

She didn’t expect the panic that spread across his face. “No. No, no, please. Anyone else, get  _ anyone _ else to feed me.”

She frowned. She glanced at the white liquid in the jar. “Why?”

He was panting now, she realized. His glowing eyes were fixed on the bottle in her hands. She moved it to the side, shocked to watch Claude’s gaze follow it. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Anyone else, anyone else…” Then he  _ keened. _ “I’m  _ so _ hungry, please…”

“Boy, are you—”

“No, I’m not alright!” He rasped at her. “I’m  _ starving! _ Please, please…”

She watched in horror as Claude was reduced to a begging wreck. His neck weakly twitched, his eyes glued on the glass jar as he babbled. If he couldn’t so much as pull his blankets over himself, he obviously couldn’t feed himself either.

She swallowed her horror. Claude needed help. It felt cruel of Byleth to drop this on her lap. But perhaps she deserved it. She gently eased Claude up, biting her lip as he weakly cried out as she moved him. What must it feel like for someone like Claude to be forced to be so open with his pain? How awful must he feel that he couldn’t hide it?

Claude was a boy that never stopped running. Claude was a boy that hid his true face under countless masks. Claude couldn’t run now. Claude was out of masks.

She uncapped the jar. Claude went quiet, eyes locked on the jar. He reminded her of a starved dog, watching a piece of meat dangled in front of him. She brought the bottle to his lips, watching every awful moment. His eyes slid shut as she slowly tipped it back.

An eternity later the cream was gone. Claude cried out as she pulled the jar back, startling her. “Sated?” she asked. He didn’t look sated.

“Hungry,” he gasped. “More, please,  _ please _ Judith, I’m so hungry, please…!”

“This is why you didn’t want me feeding you, huh.”

He whimpered, a sound she’d never heard from him. “S-supp’sd to get two,” he babbled, eyes on the empty jar. “Two, need ‘nother, please, please…”

“I was only given one.”

“N-no, two, need ‘nother, go get it, please…”

She frowned, remembering Byleth’s words. “One every two hours.”

“No! More, need more!” He looked at her desperately, his eyes tearing up. “Gonna die ‘f I don’ get more! Don’ kill me, please, ‘nother, ‘nother…”

Her lips parted. That couldn’t be right. If his life was in danger like he claimed, the Deer would be much more careful. Right?

His expression scrunched up. “Why do you hate me, Judith? Thought you cared…! No one cares, no one bu’ you, please…!” He heaved a dry sob. “I’ll give you whatever you want, ‘nything… Nnngh… Nnuh, no w-wonder mama hates you—”

She pressed a palm over his lips. To see Claude reduced to…  _ this. _ His words didn’t make her angry. How could they? It had to be Claude’s worst attempt at manipulation. If his desperation didn’t make it obvious, the way he switched tactics so rapidly made it clear.

He mumbled against her hand as she settled him to lay back down. Did he do this every time he ate? Every  _ two hours? _ She removed her hand, instead running it through his hair.

“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry…”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. I could never hate you.”

“But… I didn’ tell you?” He stared vacantly at her. He was much quieter now, his voice slurred. She hoped that was normal. “‘Bout bein’ sick. You hated me…”

“I was angry, but could never hate you. I will  _ never _ hate you.” She continued to card through hair, his hazy eyes fluttering shut. “If I think you’ve screwed up, I’ll tell you. You know I will. That doesn’t mean I hate you. I don’t even hate your mother.” She drew a shuddered breath, remembering how much she missed Tiana. She’d done her best to avoid remembering that for years now. Claude wasn’t the only one that was good at running. “Did she ever tell you about the vows of sisterhood we took? She’s my sister in all but blood. All the time, distance, or pain in the world will never change that. That makes you family, nephew.”

“Oh.” His lips curved into a tiny, tiny smile. “Aunt Judith, hm?… Mm, I like that…” 

“That’s right,” she whispered right back. She’d always thought being called ‘aunt’ would make her feel old. It always seemed like too much of a sentimental topic to bring up, filled with too many old hurts. Now she regretted not telling Claude sooner. “You can’t go dying on me, boy. Hear me? Your aunt won’t allow it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Judith resolution that everyone's been waiting for. This chapter (or rather, Judith herself) was very hard to write. How does one deal with going from one emotional extreme to the opposite? To stew in anger and hurt and betrayal for weeks, and when it finally comes to a head, to learn that the fixation of those emotions is in such a dire state- how does anyone respond to that? This section really tripped me up. It wasn't until I switched away from Claude's pov that it flowed. It took a lot of rewrites, but I'm happy with the way it came out.
> 
> One more sick-chapter, and then the wheels begin to turn towards Enbarr...


	26. Whispers of Sunlight and Skylight || Hisses of Truth and Insight

_ He does not walk. He cannot walk. Trees pass him by. _

_ There is someone holding him. They murmur words that whistle through his bones like wind. He hears, he listens, and he forgets. He cannot focus on what they say, but he enjoys the sound nonetheless. For so long, no one spoke  _ **_to_ ** _ him. They spoke around him, about him, and on rare occasions at him. But no one spoke to him with the understanding that he could hear. _

_ He is surrounded by trees. The world around him is hazy and unclear, but he is in a forest. He knows this much. _

_ He longs to walk for himself. He longs to move about under his own power. He knows, once, he lived and breathed just as the one who carries him. He cannot remember what it was like. He cannot imagine it.  _

_ He knows he is missing much of his memories of such a time. The gap is aching but distant. There is an emptiness to him. It is an emptiness that is slowly filling. The more the emptiness fades, the more he is aware of how much emptiness remains. Before he knew only that something was wrong, but not what. Now he feels the endless chasm stretching before him. He does not know much, but he does know that he will never completely fill what was lost. _

_ The forest bobs and weaves around him and his companion. He knows his adventure will end soon, but he cannot find it within himself to begrudge that. Time is another concept that is slowly returning to him. Despite how much he enjoys the walk, despite how nice it is to be with another, he misses his Starlight.  _

_ He enjoys the forest, but something in him grows uneasy. He worries for Starlight. He misses the fellow heartbeat. He fears he will lose himself again to the nothingness. He fears the meager pile he has regained will once again be swallowed by the emptiness. He fears the loss of being forced to endlessly  _ **give** _ and never  _ **take.** __

_ He never wishes to part with Starlight, but he knows there are times he must. ‘Time’… not so long ago, his entire self had been swallowed by time, unable to know or remember such a concept as it fed on him. Now he fears it will take from him again. Time takes and takes and takes. _

_ Perhaps his companion senses his fear. Together, they leave the forest, though he has no choice in the matter. He cannot move himself. He cannot speak. He cannot communicate. He can only exist, and that is far more than he once had. _

_ His companion is familiar. They remind him of his mother. He can sense now that they are not his mother, yet he still finds comfort in them. Mother’s heartbeat calls out to him from within their chest, a song old and forgotten.  _

_ His companion does not return him to Starlight. They take him somewhere familiar-yet-not. It is a place Starlight takes him to often as well. They hold him differently now. It is the way he is usually held. Not with fondness, but with purpose. _

_ They are not Starlight. There is no silver-laced warmth in the hands of his companion. They do not have the warm-bright-blood. They attempt to pull back on his tendons, but they cannot. They cannot fire their arrow. It is less that he does not allow it, and more that they are no longer compatible. He knows that in the Before time, he was passed around and used with little care or regard. His corpse bent to those who flowed with his own blood best. Yet any who held the blood of his siblings could use his corpse one way or another.  _

_ How odd. Those with the blood of his kin could use him without being overwhelmed and destroyed in the Before. Yet now they cannot. Now he is different. Starlight has changed him. He needs the blood of the dead-star as well. Without the warm-bright clairity, he is useless. _

_ He finds that he likes this. Only Starlight can use his corpse now. He trusts Starlight. It will be nice to not be used against those he loves ever again. _

  
  
  
  


The vague feeling of forests faded into the aches of pain. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The low roil of hunger was beginning to demand his attention again. It was nice that Teach took him out on a walk. He was more than sick of being cooped up in bed.

His brow furrowed. That wasn’t right… was it?

Teach definitely took him out for a walk. Didn’t they? He remembered… the trees? He’d been worried about… about… someone? A friend? No, more than a friend. Heartbeat… Starlight… Someone important. Who was… 

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Claude made, in his opinion, a rather dignified exclamation of surprise. If he was being honest with himself (which he wasn’t), it sounded more like  _ “Ghuh whua?!”  _ There was a yawn beside his ear. Close enough that he could feel the breath. He was suddenly aware that he was decently warm. The kind of warmth he felt when Hilda wrapped around him. Whoever was beside him, it wasn’t Hilda.

“So, how are you feeling? Better or worse than average? Any unusual aches or pains?” A hand reached out to his forehead. “Your temperature feels average.”

“Linhardt?”

“Oh good, you’re lucid. Well? Answer my questions.”

“Uh… better than average?” Relatively speaking, he felt pretty good for once. “Warmer too… uh, what was your other question?” His joints hurt less than usual as well.

“Hm, it seems Hilda was right. Well, that just means I have a new nap spot.”

“Why’re you napping with me?”

“It’s not because you’re comfortable, that’s for certain. You are the least comfortable object I’ve ever slept against. Your entire body is sharp and bony. Not to mention, you sleep under an absolutely sweltering amount of blankets. And it’s rather odd to share a bed with a giant bone-bow as well, I’ll admit.”

“Wow. Way to make a guy feel appreciated. You don’t  _ have _ to sleep next to me.”

“Ah, but I do. You see, you make for the perfect excuse. No one will ask me to do work, not when I’m busy keeping you warm. Not to mention, it appears that you sleep much more smoothly when you have someone beside you. Of course, more data is needed…” he yawned, “so we will need to sleep together more often.”

Claude blinked slowly. “So… you’re using me as an excuse to shirk work.”

“In a less flattering way of speaking, sure. I’m also gathering data on your condition. Why, are you complaining?” He didn’t need to see Linhardt’s face to hear the smirk in his voice. “Marianne and I have been theorizing that with an external heat source, your body won’t need to work so hard keeping you warm, thus allowing you to build up your body at a quicker rate.”

“What, and heat packs aren’t good enough?” He grumbled about that, vaguely remembering being denied his request of literally anything to help him warm up.

“Nothing that will raise your temperature unnecessarily. You’re at the low end of average human temperatures, but raising your temperature might lead to unforeseen consequences.”

He muttered under his breath what he thought about that. If he was cold, clearly that meant he needed to be warmer.

“Now that I have you awake and lucid,  _ finally, _ I have some questions. First off, regarding—”

“Oh no,” he interrupted, deadpan, “I’m oh so tired, I’m falling asleep, nooo…” He shut his eyes.

“Oh no,” Linhardt repeated, matching his tone, “it seems I have pressing work to do elsewhere…”

Claude grunted, peeking one eye open to glare at Linhardt. “You wouldn’t.”

“Well, if you make this worth my time… Like, hm, explaining how you removed both of Lysithea’s crests.”

Claude blinked. “I did both? I only remember the one… vaguely.”

“Well, that’s alarming! I know you weren’t the most awake for either time.” Linhardt hummed. “It’s a miracle nothing went wrong…”

Claude couldn’t help a yawn. “Nah, if I was gonna mess up, it’d have to be on purpose. It’s easy.”

“Easy enough to do in your sleep, apparently,” Linhardt mumbled. “If it’s so easy, then please, explain it.”

“Never said it was  _ simple. _ I dunno how it works, I just… do it.”

“You are being very unhelpful. Well, let’s move on. How did you come across this knowledge?”

“Heh… you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Mmm… I went stargazing.”

“Stargazing.”

“Mmhmmm…” 

Linhardt sighed. “Will you at least allow me to examine Failnaught, then? As a Hero’s relic—”

“No.” Something in his chest hissed at the idea. He glanced down at the tip of Begalta’s bone peaking out from his blankets. She beat against his heart in time with his own, as she always did. She was dreaming, he realized. It was a pleasant dream, he could tell. How odd… she never used to dream… 

“You should reconsider. Failnaught kept you alive when your heart stopped, and I need to know how that’s possible. No other Hero’s relic has any recorded instance of—”

The door creaked open, saving him. “Oh, you’re awake! Good morning!”

Judging by the shadows and light in the room, it was midday at least. “Morning,” Claude croaked nonetheless.

Flayn moved to his bedside. He tried not to examine her  _ too _ desperately for that familiar bottle of milk. He was fully off of juice now, which was good. The milk, though objectively tasting awful, left him feeling more sated than the juice (not that he was ever fully sated). “It is very good to see you, Claude. You appear to be in higher spirits!”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He smiled, though it was a bit weak. “Getting better every day.”

“It seems my hypothesis is correct,” Linhardt interjected. Then he and Flayn got into a discussion about heat and calories and joints and a whole lot of nonsense Claude couldn’t care less about. At least Linhardt dropped his request to take Begalta.

Claude cleared his throat. He really,  _ really _ hated to beg… but it was definitely two hours by now. “So, hey, Flayn, did you come here to  _ talk, _ or…?” He couldn’t keep the sharpness from his tone.

“Oh! My apologies.” She brought out his food.

He came back to himself a few minutes later. He didn’t beg (much) this time. As humiliating as it all was, it was progress. His mind and body finally seemed to be understanding that he would get more food in two hours. It still hurt, but less. The desperation was becoming somewhat manageable. 

Flayn smoothed a hand across his forehead. “If you are willing, there is something I wish to try.” In her hand she lifted the Caduceus staff. Not for the first time, he wondered how similar and how different it was from the staves used in Almyra. “This is a noninvasive procedure. You should not feel a thing. However, should you feel anything at all, please inform me right away.”

“Sure, go ‘head.” Flayn laid one hand on his arm, the other grasping her staff. “Tingles,” he warned immediately. As soon as he spoke up, the tingles vanished. “Can keep going…”

Flayn sighed. “No, perhaps it is for the best that I do not continue. Here I had hoped this might work.”

“Staff magic’s never hurt me. ‘S just the faith stuff that does.”

Linhardt clucked his tongue. “Staves are still faith magic. It’s a channeled, focused refinement. Nothing more.”

Flayn sucked in a breath. “No… actually Linhardt, you are incorrect. In fact… perhaps, I have an idea. A staff can be used to enhance faith magic, yes. But there are other, older, ways to use them without faith magic at all. Such practice has entirely died out.” Her eyes drifted over to Claude. “At least, as far as I was aware.”

“And you know it?” Linhardt asked despite clearly knowing the answer. 

“Indeed I do. Ah, somewhat. It is… inelegant, I would say.”

Claude scoffed. “‘S a scalpel. Faith’s a hammer. Which one’s inelegant, again?”

There was a beat of silence. “Claude, I am surprised you know of alternative stave use. You claim you have had staff work performed on you before, yes? Wherever did you find such treatment?”

“Typical Fódlan. Staff-use is more common than faith in most places.”

“Is that so? I was ignorant to such a fact.” Flayn hummed. “Well, hm. I will try something else, then.” Flayn brought the staff over his body. “Do you feel anything?”

“Mm. Nothing.” There was no telltale tingle of magic.

The staff lowered. “I cannot believe I never thought of this before!” She shook Linhardt’s shoulder. “Faith magic is an acceleration of the injured party’s own lifeforce. Obviously, such cannot be used on Claude in his state, and that is not even including his intolerance. But to draw energy from an outside force should pose no risk to his health!” She paused. “Providing it is done correctly, that is.”

“Just don’t splice my kidney into my liver.”

Flayn’s cheer diminished. “Ah. Yes, I will be very careful. Oh my, this is an excellent discovery. Perhaps some of the wear done to your body can be reversed. Not until you have more energy to spare towards repairing yourself, of course, but for the future, perhaps in a year or two…” She shook her head, fiddling with the staff. “Or, perhaps not. Examining you is an easy practice, but I fear I do not possess the knowledge necessary to heal you without harm.”

“And let me guess,” Claude grunted, “you can’t just magic the meat back on my bones.” It didn’t work like that, he knew. Something couldn’t come from nothing.

“I am afraid not.”

“I’m  _ very _ interested in this ‘lost’ art.” Linhardt leaned forward on the bed, abandoning Claude.

“Tch. It’s not lost, Fódlan just thought they were better without it,” Claude muttered.

Flayn pressed her lips into a thin line. “Wild magic is a dangerous art.”  _ Wild magic? _ An accurate name for staff magic from what he knew of the art.  _ ‘Like trying to tame lightning’, _ he had heard it once described. “More harm can be wrought than good, if the healer is not fully aware of what they are doing. Alas, I am afraid I am very rusty with the practice, nor do I know it thoroughly.” 

“Well then Claude, where might we find someone more versed in this ‘not-lost’ art?”

He clenched his jaw. “This won’t help with my starvation. You already said that.”

Flayn huffed. “But Wild Magic may be able to heal the long-lasting damage inflicted by your starvation. Lest you wish to court heart attacks every time you find yourself excited or angry for the rest of your life.”

“Or deal with brittle bones,” Linhardt added. “Oh, by the way, your bones will probably be brittle for the rest of your life. Given that your body was busy trying to digest itself for a handful of months.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t trust just anyone to try and fix me.”

“Do I count?” Flayn asked. “Were I to learn what knowledge is necessary, would you trust me?”

He heaved a breath.  _ Damn him, but he did. _ “Almyra.”

“What?”

“You’ll find seasoned staff-wielders in Almyra. Now let me go back to sleep.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Stars, why did they tolerate him? Sometimes his words were met with amusement. Sometimes sad smiles. Sometimes flashes of hurt. Those were the worst, because in the moment they felt the best.

Hilda brought the mixture to his lips. It was so  _ good. _ She withdrew the glass. The familiar anger rose in him.  _ Give it back. Give me more. _

“I hate—” he gasped, “I hate—”

“It’s okay, let’s hear it.”

“I hate this,” he whimpered. “I hate this so much.”

“I know you do.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I know you don’t”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Hey, you did good.”

“Don’t hate the others either.”

“They know. We all know.”

“I hate being helpless.”

She just continued to run her hand through his hair, settling in beside him. She wrapped him in a warm hug. When had he stopped worrying about being attacked? It used to keep him awake, clutching his dagger to his chest and eyeing the shadows of his room. Every unexpected touch of skin, every sudden movement— when did he stop fearing those things from Hilda? From the Deer? Was it when he became dependent on them, given no choice? What about before then?

When did he come to have so much trust in them? He yelled at them and berated them and cried on them. Despite his currently useless state, despite seeing him at his lowest, they didn’t abandon him. None of them.

Hilda even knew he was Almyran, and she still didn’t hate him.

He was tired. Tired of the pain and hunger and cold. Tired of the fatigue. Tired of being helpless. He was tired. Of hiding, of running, of being afraid. Of doubting. As a child, he’d screamed his throat hoarse explaining himself. It never did him any good, so of course he stopped. He learned explaining himself was a waste of time at best, making himself vulnerable at worst.

But none of those people had been his Golden Deer. None of them had been his  _ friends. _ Maybe, maybe this time… 

“I never did tell you that story, did I…?”

“Mm? Oh, for my letter! It’s okay.”

“Wanna hear a story?”

“I’d  _ love _ to. Seriously, you  _ know _ I love your stories.”

He bit his lip. “Hilda… how come you don’t hate me?”

“That doesn’t sound like a story, mister.” She ruffled his hair, wrapping her arm around his bony shoulder. “But I don’t hate you because you’re my best friend. Remember?”

“Promise you won’t hate me…?”

Hilda scoffed before giving a small laugh. “Oh Claude, if I was going to hate you, don’t you think it would’ve happened already? Nope, you’re stuck with me.”

He wondered if she’d say that by the time he was done. “Growing up, dad used to tell me a story of a brave warrior. It was my favorite. ‘S a true story too.”

“Ooh, so little Claude liked stories of brave warriors huh?”

“A few hundred years ago, there was a little girl born to a blacksmith,” he began, half convinced he was dreaming. He wasn’t  _ really _ about to tell this to Hilda, was he? “She was… she was… ‘blessed’ by the stars. The blessing meant she was important. Everyone knew it. Not many people get blessed in a generation. She was special.” He trailed off.

“Ooh, ooh, can I guess where this story is going?” Hilda liked to do that. She learned by now that interacting with a tired-Claude would keep his words flowing when his brain decided to dry up. “She was brought to the palace and wed to a handsome prince!”

Claude huffed a laugh. “Nope. She could’a taken the throne if she wanted it though… Mm, the—” he almost said King’s Mark, barely catching himself— “uh, star blessing means you’ll do great things.”

“Bet everyone was super nice to her, then.”

_ “Hah, _ nope. Gotta prove yourself. ‘S not like Fódlan… nobility here are given everything without needing to prove anything…” There were a lot of reasons he could be bitter. He wasn’t sure which reason it was that painted his words now.

“Claude, are you sure you want to tell this story now? Maybe you should wait until you’re more awake—”

It was either now or never. He was much more lucid than usual. Besides, he wouldn’t have the courage if he was any more awake. “She joined the military. Bein’ star blessed makes it hard to do ‘nything. People expect you to excel, expect you to live up to the star’s expectations.” He would know. “Esfandi was only human, but she was given impossible tasks. She never let that stop her. When she couldn’t do something by strength, she got clever. Despite the impossible odds she faced, she always won. She was a hero, even before the war.”

“Is this a boring war story? I get enough of those from my brother and father, you know.” There was something barely off in Hilda’s voice, but he wasn’t sure what.

“War wasn’t  _ supposed _ to happen. Was supposed to be a peaceful meeting. See, along the border was a great mountain. On the other side of the mountain were people that were different. Neither side really liked each other. But Esfandi became friends with a… with a peach-blossom daughter of the other side. The peach-blossom was a noble, and she decided that if Esfandi was a nice person, that maybe the rest of her people were too. They hatched a scheme so they could be friends openly instead of having to sneak to be together.”

“‘Peach-blossom’? Were these like, people made of flowers? Thought you said this was a true story.”

“‘S a translation. Anyways, the peach-blossom set up a meeting with Esfandi’s people. But when they tried to meet, the peach-blossom’s people attacked Esfandi and her people without warning. Both sides have different takes on what happened. There was probably a mis’nderstanding. Doesn’t really matter. It led to war. Esfandi was forced to fight against her dear peach-blossom friend.”

“Claude!  _ Ugh, _ is this a  _ sad _ story?! You  _ know _ I hate those!”

“Some say Esfandi was brokenhearted by the betrayal of her friend. She threw herself into the war. ‘S said her rage burned as hot as the stars themselves. She was given the name  _ Esfandi the Tempest, _ for she wrought the same destruction as a tempest.” He trailed off again.

_ “This _ is your favorite story?”

“You know… I always wondered… did she blame herself? Usually the moral of the story is about her strength. That’s all people ever seem to care about. But I’ve always wondered if she regretted making that friend.”

“Claude…?”

He continued, despite the way his throat was growing hoarse. “There was a big battle. Esfandi was losing. But then she saw her beloved friend’s father leading the charge. He singled her out. The man began taunting her.  _ ‘My daughter’s death is your fault,’ _ he cried.  _ ‘You bewitched her!’” _

“Hey, maybe you should tell this another time—”

“Esfandi was struck by the man’s words. During the war, she’d never seen her dear peach-blossom, despite her being a warrior rivaling Esfandi’s strength. She rode out to the man.  _ ‘How did she die?’ _ she called out.”

“Claude…I—”

“The man snarled at her.  _ ‘How dare you ask me that?! You entranced her, forcing my hand!’ _ Esfandi, realizing the man killed his own daughter, was stunned. Her dear peach-blossom had always spoken so fondly of her father. In her moment of shock, the man ran her through.”

Hilda was oddly silent.

“Y’see, the blessing of the stars doesn’t do a lot. Mostly, ’s just a birthmark that says ‘hey, lookit me, the heavens think I’m hot shit!’ But there is one thing it does.” He swallowed. _Now or never._ “See, it’s said that the stars despise work going unfinished. So those blessed with a Ki— blessed by the stars are unable to die in the middle of a battle. Esfandi, mortally wounded, smiled at her beloved friend’s murderer. Howling with rage, she turned the tide of battle through force of will alone. She slaughtered the people that betrayed her dear peach-blossom, the friend she had so desperately wanted to make peace with once long ago. When the battle ended, the stars took their due and she died. The soldiers that served under her returned home to their own loved ones thanks to her sacrifice.” He coughed, his throat aching from so much talking.

He released a shaky sigh. Hilda was silent. He couldn’t look at her.

“There’s a lot of different tellings of the story. ‘S what happens to stories. Some ham up the romance, some paint the other side as the villain, some use it as a cautionary tale. Mom ‘n dad used to make a game of comparing the stories, trying to find the most truthful version. ‘Nyways, ‘m pretty sure that’s the most accurate telling you’ll find. Heh, I used to dig up old documents, looking for the truth… Neither side was evil. They were both just… people. Failable people, prone to mis’nderstanding what they’re afraid of. And people died for it. They still do.”

“Not the sort of story I would expect you to like,” Hilda murmured after an eternity.

“‘S got an important lesson.”

She audibly swallowed. ‘Thanks for sharing. Can’t say I’ve ever heard a story like it, hah…”

“You have.” He still remembered Hilda’s version of the battle.  _ The Undying Moonstealer. _ It painted Esfandi as nothing but a monster. Then again, the  _ Forbidden Poisoned Peach of Fódlan _ was often described in just as degrading terms. A temptress, a witch, a scorpion. A liar, betrayer, schemer, coward. 

“… Why tell me this, Claude?”

He closed his eyes. “I ‘unno. ‘M tired, Hils.”

“You  _ do _ know. You told me this much. Are you really stopping here?”

“Hey. You remember Petra?”

“What? What’s that got to do with—”

“She was different. But she was nice too. Wasn’t bad. Just different.”

“I…”

He couldn’t bear to bring his voice above a whisper. “I just wish people didn’t hate each other for being different. That’s all. I’m tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilda's section calls back a lot to Chapter 11 (I'm aware it's been a while since that chapter, so if something doesn't make sense, rereading that chapter might refresh the memory)


	27. Rousing Corpse

For once he was alone. It hadn’t been easy to convince Leonie to leave the room. Even bedridden as he was though, he wasn’t called the Master Tactician for nothing (ugh, he still hated that title).

He palmed the crystal in his hand. Teach kept the stone safe, just as he asked. No one knew the significance. No one but Teach and Seteth even knew it came from him. He’d asked Hilda to fashion it into a necklace of sorts. Kudos to her for managing it with the stipulation that she couldn’t alter the shape or add any holes to it. Extra kudos to her for not asking the questions she must be dying to ask. She’d done as he asked. His dragonstone hung in a sort of metal harness, tangled in strings of Umbral Steel attached to a cord of the same metal.

For the past two days, ever since he shared that story with her, Hilda was oddly quiet by his side. But she still remained by his side. That was what mattered.

He held the gem. The task of moving his arm to the bedside table and then wrapping his fingers around the gem had been almost too much to bear. But he did it.  _ Progress, _ he reminded himself. He could barely lift his arm, but he could  _ lift his arm. _

Begalta pulsed in a familiar feeling. She didn’t approve of his plan, but she would support him. He appreciated that. The stone was warm in his hands, like cupping a cozy campfire. According to Teach, they felt no warmth from it. 

Any worries that he wouldn’t know how to access the energy within evaporated as he continued to hold it. Teasing out the warmth was as easy as breathing. He understood how it worked on an instinctual level, though he couldn’t articulate how.

Fire flooded through his limbs. He eased back into bed with a soft sigh. His aches, his chill, his weakness, his fatigue, his  _ damned _ hunger— it all faded under the roar of warmth in his blood. The fog within his mind cleared, and he could  _ think _ again. He closed his eyes and took a selfish moment for himself. He basked in the warmth, basked in the lack of pain.

His eyes snapped open. He had no time to waste. He needed to make his move before someone came to check on him. He slipped the cord over his neck. He swung his legs over the bed and stood. He  _ stood. _ His legs didn’t even shake. He broke out into a wild grin.

_ Finally _ he could escape Rhea’s room. With Begalta still on his chest, his chest was left bare. He took one of his thinner bedsheets and fashioned it into a makeshift robe. Clad in nothing but pants and a sheet, he made his escape. With a quick check down the hallway, he made his way to the balcony.

He peered off the ledge, noting the swirling morning mist. The excited grin across his face only grew. He couldn’t go down the stairs, after all. Even in the early morning, there would be a few people milling about. He could  _ not  _ get caught. It would expose his emaciated state.

He glanced up at the stars barely visible in the dawn. He tossed out a two fingered salute to the brightest one. “I’m breaking out of my sickbed,” he whispered, “wish me luck!” Maybe it was a coincidence, but the star twinkled back.

He hopped over the ledge, relishing being able to  _ do _ something again. He eased his way down the tall building. A few minutes ago he couldn’t stand. Now he climbed down the sheer face of the wall like it was nothing.

Even sweet and gentle Marianne would kill him if she knew what he was doing.

His bare feet touched down on grass. He wasted no time in ducking from courtyard to courtyard, favoring speed over stealth. With the way his eyes glowed, it was impossible to hide in the shadows. Fortunately for him, he didn’t run into anyone.

Scaling up the back of the dormitory was child’s play. He slipped into his own room, grinning ear to ear. Oh, he was  _ so _ going to hear it from the Deer— but he didn’t care.

Now to put his scheme into action.

If his math was right, it was the 26th. The army would march for Enbarr on the 28th and should reach the capital on the 30th. Claude’s ‘disappearance’ had been explained that he was out on an important mission paving the way for the main assault. 

Wouldn’t that be a nice morale boost?  _ Why, Duke Claude’s returned from his mission early! _

The Deer were going to skin him alive for this stunt, but it was necessary. Even though they had been careful with what they did and didn’t tell him, he could read between the lines. His absence was noticed and it was the cause for rumbles of uncertainty. In the last push of the war, they couldn’t  _ afford _ that kind of uncertainty. That kind of uncertainty could lead to  _ panic _ if allowed to fester.

Claude hissed as he noticed a hiccup in his plans. His carpet was stained with silver. He vaguely remembered that from when his heart stopped. The problem was that his uniform lay on the floor and had been in the splatter zone. It was coated, and he knew from experience that whatever the silver bile touched  _ stayed _ silver. He took a moment to admit that, yes, maybe his mother had been right about his disorganized habits being the death of him.

He couldn’t exactly go walking around in his old student uniform. But what else did he…  He rummaged through his drawer, pulling out the false bottom of one. He stared down at the yellow and black fabric.

His Barbarossa outfit.

He’d need to salvage a bit of the stuffing from his old outfit. He’d need to wear a thick cravat over the open part of the shirt. But… but… 

Well, nothing like a new look for his triumphant return.

If he worked quickly, he should have enough time to get dressed and apply a quick layer of makeup before anyone noticed he was gone.

He got to work.

He was impressed with the end result. His new outfit was thinner than his last, but it was still thick enough to give the illusion that he was healthy. He finished just in time too, hearing the loud thuds of someone running down the hall.

The sound of banging on wood echoed through his room. “Lorenz!” Hilda called from next door, “Lorenz, get up! He’s gone!”

_ Time’s up. _

“Hilda?” Lorenz’s sleep-addled voice replied. “What’s wrong? Who’s gone?”

“Who do you think?! Who in the monastery, out of  _ everyone, _ do you think I just  _ ran _ all the way here to tell you is missing?”

He heard Lorenz’s door swing open. “What? How!? He can’t even walk! Has someone kidnapped him? We were careful about who knew about him, but— oh dear, this is bad.”

Claude felt a sliver of guilt, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t sure if Lorenz was still mad at him anyways. He’d definitely be mad at Claude one way or another by the end of the day.

“Goddess! How could this have happened?”

“Look, I don’t know, okay!? No one’s seen anything! He just vanished!”

“Who was watching him?”

“Leonie was. She said he convinced her to leave for a few minutes. And  _ apparently _ that was all it took for him to up and disappear!”

Claude took his leave, slipping out the way he came.

He made his way to his old secret little passage leading outside of the monastery walls. In order to get back to the front gate he had to pass through the Sealed Forest, but to be honest he was happy for the short hike through the woods. It was refreshing after being cooped up for so long. His previous walk had been good, yes, but to be able to walk under his own power was better.

He paused in his steps, looking around him. He definitely remembered being in the forest recently. But he knew he hadn’t left his bed… 

_ Okay, _ when he threw together his plan to get Begalta to get some fresh air, he didn’t realize she would share the experience so vividly. Didn’t realize she  _ could. _

He shook his head, resuming his fast pace. That was a revelation for another time. The Deer wouldn’t be able to sound any official alarms— after all, they couldn’t exactly say they’d  _ lost _ Claude, not when he was supposed to be out of the monastery anyways— but if he dallied too long, one of them might do something drastic. 

Dawn well and fully arrived by the time he made it to the front gate. The man on gate duty did a triple-take as Claude strode up.

“Lord Claude! Your Grace! Welcome back!” The man nearly dropped his lance.

Claude flashed the man a smile. “It’s good to be back. We march for Enbarr soon— I wouldn’t miss that for anything.”

“Yes! Things haven’t been the same without you, sir! Welcome in!”

The gates opened for Claude. He strode in like he owned the place. Despite the early morning, the market was already bustling with people.  _ Perfect. _

He heard plenty of “Your Grace!” and “Lord Claude!” as well as a single “It’s Saint Claude!” (he allowed it to slide just this once). He waved and smiled to everyone that called out to him (except the Saint guy).

Claude could  _ feel  _ the spirit of the marketplace lift. He stopped by one of the merchants, an easygoing smile in place. He took his time looking over the man’s wares. He already knew what he’d be purchasing— a particularly dapper handkerchief for Hilda, some choice tea leaves for Lorenz, and some coffee beans for Teach. The three of them had taken on the brunt of his duties.

“It’s nice, knowing I’ll be able to spend money a little more loosely come next week,” Claude said conversationally. He pretended that the entire market wasn’t eavesdropping, as though that wasn’t exactly what he wanted.

“Ah, confident about your odds in the coming battle, Your Grace?”

Claude threw back his head and laughed. “Oh I’m confident alright! Peace is coming, friend. Those tea leaves, I’ll take a satchel of those.”

Murmurs raced through the crowd. Hopeful and excited murmurs. Gifts tucked into his bag, he left the marketplace.

And ran straight into Teach. Teach, who stared at him with their jaw hanging on the ground.

“My friend! I returned a little early— hope that doesn’t throw off anyone’s plans.” He winked. “Gotta say, morale was looking a bit shabby before I walked through those gates. Chin up! You’ll swallow a fly.”

Teach snapped their teeth together with a click. “Claude. This is a surprise.”

Begalta’s amusement combined with his own made it hard not to lose his shit laughing. How many times in his youth had he schemed and plotted pranks to shock Teach like this? But he kept his laughter to himself. If his smile was a touch wider than usual— well, that only made him look more genuine. He flourished the coffee beans he bought for them. “A gift, from the exotic lands of the monastery marketplace!”

Teach snorted, finally regaining their composure. “While I appreciate the bribe, it won’t save you.”

“I’ve been gone for a while, I’m  _ dying _ to see the rest of the Deer. Have I been missed? They’ll  _ kill _ me with love, I’m sure.”

“Claude. No.”

“C’mon Teach, don’t look so  _ grave. _ But seriously, I better go greet the others huh. So they know my mission was a success and that I wasn’t ‘captured’, and all that. Care to join me?”

Teach shook their head, but walked by his side. “I believe the others are already in the cardinal room. I’m sure they’ll all be happy to hear your ‘mission report’.”

“My friend, I  _ love _ crashing parties.”

“You know they’ll be angry, yes?” Teach, ever wise, told him.

“I know. I also know I need to do this. So let me have fun before they put me in my place six feet under.”

Despite his claim, the closer he came to the cardinal room, the more nervous he felt. The high of being free from pain was an intoxicating one, but he knew his position was precarious. He needed to be  _ very  _ careful with how he argued his case. At this point, the Deer wouldn’t be able to sideline him without significant consequences. He was worried, however, that no consequence was too high when it came to keeping him safe. It should have been a heartwarming sentiment. But his life was not worth all of theirs.

The cardinal door stood before him. His joviality sank beneath anticipation. Before his sickness took its toll, he kept his friends at arms lengths. Present, but distant. That distance was shattered now. He’d been bared to all of them completely and entirely. He couldn’t remember everything he’d said and done, but he knew he’d spilled so much of himself. They’d all seen him at his worst, and they still stood by him. Still… cared about him. 

If he didn’t play his cards right, his insistence on going to Enbarr would look like a slap in the face to them all. Like he was throwing away everything they had done for him. He  _ wasn’t, _ and he was doing this for  _ them. _ He had his duty to see the war through, yes, but it went beyond that now. The stakes were higher. He  _ refused  _ to lose any of them, no matter what underhanded tactics it took.

Claude opened the doors to the cardinal room, striding in with Teach by his side.

The Golden Deer, minus Flayn, were all assembled. There was a somber energy in the room. “He  _ has _ to be fine!” Leonie shouted at Hilda. “He  _ wanted _ me out of the room! Why else, unless he had some sort of scheme?”

“Professor, thank you for joining us,” Lorenz said, not looking up from the desk. “We have a situation.” His hair hung over his grim face in a curtain.

“He can’t walk!” Hilda shouted back at Leonie. “He can’t even crawl! How do you propose he  _ vanished _ under his own power, huh?!”

Out of everyone in the room, Ignatz was the only one to turn his head to greet Teach with a tired smile on his lips. That smile burst as his eyes blew wide and mouth dropped open. Claude winked. Ignatz choked on his tongue, sputtering. The noise drew the attention of everyone in the room. To Ignatz, not to Claude.

“So, what’s the situation? You lot sure look gloomy.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone froze. Heads twisted to him. Some whipped to gape at him, others slowly turned to stare, wide-eyed.

“Claude?” Lysithea gasped.

He grinned. Damn him, but his time sick had softened his heart. He tried for the cocky, sure-fire grin that he used to wear. He knew it came out much softer and fonder than he meant it to. “You all didn’t think I would leave you to finish the war without me, did you?”

“You’re— you’re standing.” Lorenz stuttered out what everyone was thinking. 

“You’re better? How?” Ignatz whispered.

He made his way around the table. Two empty seats were at the head of the table. His and Teach’s. He was surprised they left his chair empty. “I owe a great deal of it to all of you, my friends.” He took a moment to look around the table. “Thank you. All of you, thank you. We all know it’s no exaggeration to say I would be dead without your help.”

It came easier than he expected it to. He took in the faces of his friends, pale and shocked as they were. He swallowed as an odd feeling thrummed in his chest. For a moment he mistook it for Begalta gushing a wave of love, but she denied it. It was different. Similar, but different. It swelled in his chest like a flood, and it was all directed at his friends. 

He really had grown soft. It was terrifying to realize how deeply he loved them all.

“As much as I would love to believe in the healing properties of the power of friendship, it doesn’t work like that,” Linhardt drawled, his eyes narrowing. “You might be alive thanks to our efforts, but you aren’t standing by them.”

Marianne stood. Her expression was blank as she moved over to him. He spread his hands in front of him, grin turning sheepish. He didn’t know what to expect from her.

She reached for his chin. He expected her to snatch his chin and glare, berating him. He expected her to begin a barrage of questions. He expected the stubborn, caring, strong woman he had grown to know and love in the past few months.

She gently cradled his chin. Her eyes searched his. He could have worn any mask, but none of them would be able to disguise himself from her. Not now that she had seen him cracked open and laid bare. Her expression cracked, turning infinitely sad. It stung to see. “You’re no better than you were this morning,” she whispered. Her voice echoed through the cardinal’s room. She didn’t look surprised— just disappointed that she was correct. She took a breath. “Please sit. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

He reveled in being able to stand, but conceded to sit. It was the least he could do for her. He sank down into his chair. “I can’t perform a miracle.” He grinned still, but some of Marianne’s sadness leached into his smile. He turned to address everyone. “Yes, I’m still ill.”

“Why are you out of bed?” Hilda thundered. Her pink eyes blazed. “You’re still sick. You shouldn’t be here. Do you have any clue how worried we’ve been for you?”

_ “How _ are you out of bed?” Lysithea demanded. She leaned forward across the table, peering at him. “If you’re still in the same condition as before, it shouldn’t be possible for you to be up.”

“Your heart’s not going to stop again, is it?” Raphael asked.

“One question at a time, please. It’s complicated.”

“That is  _ not _ reassuring!” Lorenz exclaimed.

“I’ve been ill for years, I’ll remind you all. Despite my poor physical condition, it hasn’t slowed me down until recently.” He turned to Lysithea. The roots of her hair were growing in with a vivid lavender, the same color as her shawl. She looked well. “It’s my crest that burns through me, just like Lysithea’s did to her. For Lysithea, I removed her crests. I can’t remove my own, but I can…” he waved a hand in a nonsensical gesture, “turn it off, more or less. And I can turn it back on just as easily.” It might not be the full truth, but it was close. He trusted them.  _ Damn him, _ but he trusted them. Old habits die hard though. He wasn’t going to risk his dragonstone being taken for his ‘best interest.’

“And  _ why _ are you using your crest  _ now?!” _ Lysithea shouted. “If that’s the case, then it’s eating away at you again!”

“I’ve been recovering for weeks now. I’m not in as dangerous of a place as I was before.”

“Yet you are still on the precipice,” Marianne told him. “You are still in danger, Claude, even when not exerting yourself.”

“I know. A few hours here and there won’t ruin my health. I have wiggle room now, thanks to all of you.”

“You plan to fight at Enbarr,” Lorenz interrupted. “That’s why you're here now, is it not?”

“It is.”

_ “What?!” _ Hilda screeched at him. “You will  _ not _ be going to Enbarr with us!”

“I’m afraid that isn’t your choice to make, Hilda. I appreciate all you’ve done to fill in for me, but I’m still the head of this army. Good luck explaining to the entire army why I’m not at Enbarr. You should've seen the marketplace when I passed through. By now, I’m sure the entire monastery has heard of my ‘return.’”

Lorenz gave a dark chuckle. “I see. You always have a scheme under your sleeve, don’t you. Do you have so little faith in us without you?”

“That’s not it.” It really wasn’t. Faith wasn’t something he understood, but oddly enough, he  _ did _ have faith in them. “How do you plan to break the news to the troops that their  _ ‘Master Tactician’ _ that they place so much faith in has abandoned them on the eve of the most important battle? Or do you plan to tell them that their  _ ‘Undying General’ _ has fallen ill, and shatter the belief that I can achieve the impossible for them? Perhaps you plan to use the excuse that I’ve been captured by the enemy and need to be rescued? Again, that will shatter morale for their  _ ‘unbeatable leader’ _ to need rescuing. Unless you’re all planning to stuff my outfit with straw and prop it up on a wyvern?”

“We will be fine without you,” Hilda insisted. “Or were all of your plans made for the aftermath of your death just lies? You seemed confident about our success without you in your letters.”

He winced. “Those plans were the best option available to me. They weren’t  _ ideal.” _

“This is the last push. We’re attacking the Empire’s capital. That will be enough for morale! You don’t need to be there!”

“The Empire’s capital, also known as the most heavily defended city in all of Fódlan currently? You think attacking there will be a  _ bonus _ to morale?” He shook his head. “I know none of you like this, but the truth is that I  _ have _ to be there. As a figurehead if nothing else.”

Hilda threw back her head. “Morale isn’t  _ everything!” _

“Claude’s right.” Claude blinked back his surprise. Ignatz stood up, his head bowed. “I hate to say it, but he’s right. Both him and the professor are the keystones of the army. If one of them vanishes, it all crumbles.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “The people don’t have faith in the Leicester Alliance. They have faith in the Saintly Duo that leads them. Claude’s mythos has bloomed a legend some consider worthy of worship. People  _ believe _ in him.”

“Yeah, and what’ll happen when people see Claude die on the battlefield, huh?” Hilda fumed. She turned to glare at him. “Can you even fight anymore?”

“Of course I can. I’ll prove it at the training grounds right now if you don’t believe me.” The opportunity to do  _ anything _ that wasn’t sleeping itched at him.

“You will  _ not,” _ Marianne declared. He flinched. She wasn’t  _ angry, _ she was  _ concerned. _ “I know you won’t allow anyone to stop you. Which means in the upcoming days we need to fortify your body as much as possible. You will not exert yourself unnecessarily. You  _ will _ listen to me, Claude, or so help me Goddess I will tie you to your bed.”

He held his hands in front of him like he was calming an angry wyvern. “Alright, no training ground for me then.”

“And why aren’t we tying him to his bed anyways?” Hilda grumbled. 

Marianne nodded at him. “I’ll run a few tests on you when this meeting is finished. If I find you stable enough, I’ll clear you. If I do not,” her expression grew troubled, “that means you will not survive the trip to Enbarr. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “I understand.” He was decently sure he could withstand the trip. Begalta, at least, was. She wouldn’t be going along with this at all if she thought he would keel over.

“You’ll need to pass my examination as well,” Lysithea added. “If your crest has destabilized at all, you might be risking a fate worse than death.”

There was a tense beat of silence as her words sunk in. No one looked surprised by her implications: that Claude might transform into a demonic beast. He shook his head. “I’m in no danger of that.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” Linhardt said. “And I’m certain Flayn will request the chance to look you over as well.”

“Even  _ if  _ he is well enough to go, I will not allow him on the front lines.”

“Are you the tactician now, Lorenz?”

“As you said, you need to be seen. That does not mean you need to fight.”

A hand clasped his shoulder. “You will not be fighting on the front lines, Claude.” He opened his mouth to protest, but a sharp shake of Teach’s head cut him off. “I’m not questioning your abilities. I am saying this because you will be a distraction to the rest of us. It wasn’t so long ago for me that their concern for you left the entire class eyeing you when they should have focused on their own battle.”

He grimaced. Though it was five years ago for him, he still vividly remembered the first skirmish with bandits after his ‘condition’ came to light. He hated it, but they were right. Everyone had been watching him struggling and helpless for the past few weeks. In their eyes, he must look so weak.

Teach patted his shoulder again. “I’m calling a recess. The hour has been harrowing.” Claude winced at the unintended jab. “It’s pointless to plan until we know whether or not Claude is fit for this battle.” They nodded to Marianne, who nodded back. “I’ll gather Judith, Seteth, and Flayn, as they should also be brought up to speed.” Oh  _ Stars _ Judith was going to  _ murder _ him for this stunt. If he was lucky, Judith would take it all out on Teach and be out of steam by the time he saw her.

“Professor! You aren’t really going to allow him to do this, right?”

“I have faith in Claude. Claude will survive the battle. I will make  _ sure _ of it. You  _ all _ will survive this war.” Teach looked at him with the sort of conviction that left no room for the possibility of failure. Grass was green, the sky was blue, and Teach would not allow any of them to fall. That was Teach. Saying things that no one could ever hope to insure, promising something that they couldn’t fully control. Yet he believed them. That was why they commanded so much respect— they  _ meant _ what they said in iron clad terms. Claude had no plans to allow himself to die, but now he felt secure in the sense that Teach wouldn’t  _ allow _ him to die. Not in battle, at least.

Lorenz heaved a sigh. “And if the professor allows it, there really is nothing we can do.”

“So that means we gotta make sure he’s as prepared as possible!” Raphael said, standing. He grinned at Claude. “We’ll get you through this.” The hug that Raphael proceeded to engulf him in left him blindsided. The bigger man was careful not to squeeze him too hard. “Your big bro Raph will keep you safe, no matter what!”

He gaped, too stunned to return the hug. A vague, half-remembered memory laced with pain pricked in the back of his head. Raphael told him that before. He swallowed hard. Before he’d been sick, he might have laughed Raphael off. Maybe he would tell Raphael not to make promises he couldn’t keep. The oddest thing was, he believed Raphael. And he didn’t know how to respond to that.

Raphael’s hug was not a short one. But eventually, he drew back. Claude was still gaping. “I, ah. Thank you.” He cleared his throat, desperately trying to claw together his composure.  _ ‘You don’t need to bribe me with hugs,’ _ he thought about saying. Except, he knew Raphael wasn’t trying to get anything out of him. 

His attempt to save face was demolished by Ignatz, who also pulled him into a hug. “It’s so jarring to see you go from one extreme to the other. Please allow us to continue to help you. It’s good to see you up and about, free from pain… but I refuse to allow you to martyr yourself.”

His words stuck in his throat. Despite his mind being so clear, he was flat-footed. Ignatz released him. Again, he cleared his throat. “Right. Thanks. I—”

He was interrupted by a third hug. Lysithea, this time. He gathered enough of his wits to return this hug. “You’re a hypocrite. You’re not allowed to die after all of this.” She squeezed against the stuffing of his sleeves. “I understand, you stupid workaholic,” she whispered. “You’ve given me a life I never thought I would live. I refuse to live it without you in it. You’re not alone in this.”

_ ‘Let’s not go making a suicide pact here,’ _ he almost says. “I— I guess not.”

Lysithea was still hugging him when Leonie joined in. “I’m going to kick your ass for tricking me, when you’re better.” She spoke her threat with the same fondness as everyone before her. “And I’ll  _ double _ kick your ass if you go dying on us, got it?”

Lysithea and Leonie pulled away and were immediately replaced with Marianne. She didn’t say anything. She just hugged him. Somehow, her silence hit him the hardest. He bit his lip, blinking rapidly. She took her time hugging him, driving him further and further towards a cliff that he didn’t understand. 

She pulled away just before he hit the precipice. He gave her a wobbling smile, not trusting himself to speak. He thought that would be all. He was wrong.

Arms wrapped around his chest from behind. He jolted in surprise. Too slim to be Raphael, too tall to be anyone other than Lorenz. “I know we may not always agree, and I know our friendship has had its share of hardships. That does not change that you are a very dear friend to me.”

“Shove off Lorenz, it’s my turn!” Hilda, despite her words, didn’t shove Lorenz away. She slipped around his front, hugging him around the waist. “You can stop pretending that you don’t love hugs, you know.”

He finally forced a watery laugh from his throat. He slowly returned Hilda’s hug, his breath hitching. “What did I ever do to deserve you all?”

“This is touching,” Linhardt stated, “but we really should run some tests to make sure his heart won’t explode.”

He mentally thanked Linhardt over and over again. He hung onto Linhardt’s words like a lifeline, pulling himself back from the tears he was moments from spilling. “That’s ridiculous. My heart will not  _ explode.” _

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Marianne stated. Lorenz finally let go of him, though Hilda stubbornly held him. 

“Alright, let’s be off.” Linhardt wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I will not allow you to do something as foolish as killing yourself. You’re a treasure trove of research opportunities that I have yet to fully understand.”

He huffed a laugh. “Is that all I am to you?”

“Of course not. You’re my friend as well, which frankly trumps all the potential research in the world.” Linhardt shot him a satisfied smirk. “I thought I would be merciful and offer you a break from the sentimental babble. And, besides, the two aren’t mutually exclusive. So, chop-chop, let’s get you looked over so I can take a nap.”

“I’m sorry,” he forced out. “To all of you, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been awful recently. I don’t remember half the things I said, and the half I do remember are beyond shameful. I—” 

“Nope!” Hilda released her hug, only to heft him into her arms.

“Ack— Hilda!”

“Did you think I wasn’t going to take my revenge? You can  _ apologize _ by getting better! So that means taking it easy. Which  _ means, _ you get to be carried everywhere! Just because you  _ can _ walk again doesn’t mean you should!”

“H-Hilda, come on, have some mercy here!” 

“This  _ is _ me showing mercy. Be grateful! Besides, while the healer-quartet is interrogating you about your health,  _ I _ intend to interrogate you about where you got that outfit! Did you go shopping without me?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy bday to Claude! In celebration of his bday, Claude gets to be happy for a chapter. As a treat. (what, no, it's totally not a coincidence)


	28. Rousing Body

Claude’s return to the public eye was met with a fervor of excitement. He made sure to be seen as much as possible (preferably from a distance). Perhaps it was arrogant to say it was his presence alone that lit the fire of zeal, but it was true. His projected confidence was infectious and in turn morale skyrocketed. Between himself and Teach, monastery gossip buzzed about the currents of fate leading their righteous army to victory.

Not that he was allowed out very often. The ‘healer quartet’ cleared him for light duty. As grating as it was to be treated like glass by everyone around him, at least he could finally do  _ something. _ He could finally  _ walk, _ and that alone still left him giddy!

His health was… well of course it was atrocious. But  _ comparatively, _ he was doing amazing! His heart performed decently and showed no signs of stopping unexpectedly. 

Despite being cleared, the Deer were still leery about his health. He mostly blamed Linhardt for that. The healer very vocally speculated that if Claude pulled off another prolonged bout of Acute Ignoring Death like he did at Ailell and Merceus, his heart might explode? Maybe? Or stop, implode, dissolve, or something else on the long list of terrible, horrible things that may or may not happen. Personally, he thought Linhardt was exaggerating. Not that he planned on testing that theory.

But  _ no, _ all the Deer heard was  _ “his heart could explode,” _ and that sealed his fate. In the two days before the march, he was allowed to ‘work’ for a grand total of eight hours. Four hours each day in two hour increments. Any attempts to push the Deer’s imposed time-limit resulted in him being bodily carried back to bed by Hilda or Raphael. Which only happened four times.

When Judith found out about his most recent scheme, she yelled at him a bunch. Hugged him a bunch too. Then he made a joke about  _ ‘no longer slacking off, just like you said,’ _ and she yelled at him even more. At least the hugs were nice.

He’d only been allowed to attend tactics meetings while exclusively sitting. Between Lorenz, Teach, Hilda, Seteth, and Judith, nearly all of his duties were covered. It left him scrambling to prove his usefulness in the short amount of time he had. In the weeks of his sickness, his inner circle had evolved to continue without him. It was a very good thing, as he  _ knew _ he couldn’t be around often, but it still stung what little remained of his pride that he was so replaceable. 

The one thing they couldn’t replace was his reputation and physical presence. It left him feeling like nothing but a figurehead. He was able to help most by being seen and perceived as being the army’s ‘unbeatable master tactician’. Which meant a lot of sitting around looking healthy and smart. Unfortunately, ‘doing paperwork’ counted as looking smart.

He desperately wanted more time. It was a bitter struggle of willpower every time he returned the energy of his crest into his dragonstone. To go back to the pain and hunger and cold, to feel his thoughts haze over— it was torture. It was a torture he could  _ so easily _ end if he only reached out to his dragonstone.

When he was up and about, he understood the importance of resting his body. It was much easier to think logically when he wasn’t in pain. As soon as the pain returned, his logic left him completely. His dragonstone was his escape, his freedom, his everything. It sat on his chest at all times,  _ begging _ to be used. It was a loaf of bread to a starving man,  _ sat right on his chest! _

Begalta didn’t allow him to use it. Every time he mentally reached for it when he wasn’t ‘allowed’ to, she flooded his mind with so much disappointment that she overrode his ability to think and act. Which flung him into an understandably depressed mood.

Suffice to say, the past few days were a different flavor of miserable than he was used to. 

He’d hoped that the trip to Enbarr would be better.  _ Surely _ they would need him visibly at the head of the army, conversing with Teach and going about normal business.  _ Surely _ he needed to be seen. It wasn’t like they could hide him away for the entire march.

Bundled up in a pile of blankets, hidden away for the duration of the march, Claude was miserable. He cursed his foolish optimism. 

Every bump of the supply wagon rattled his joints. He was exhausted, but didn’t feel safe enough to sleep with only Leonie and Begalta as his guards. He was starving, but Leonie was just as strict about his feeding schedule as everyone else. Despite the heaps of blankets around him, he was  _ freezing. _ It was  _ supposed _ to be summer, but it might as well be the depths of winter. It was probably sunny outside of the covered wagon, but any idea of sunbathing was dashed by the fact that he was confined to stay hidden in the wagon. 

Even  _ entertaining  _ the idea of reaching for his dragonstone caused Begalta’s  _ disappointment _ to flood his brain. As disastrous as it would be, he wished someone would find and attack him. At least then he would have a reason to use his dragonstone.

“I hate this.”

“You have only yourself to blame. If you hadn’t pulled the stunt you did, you’d be nice and cozy back in the monastery.” Leonie didn’t even look up from the arrow she was fletching. 

“Wouldn’t be any better there.” He heaved a groan. “Can I eat yet?”

“It’s been an hour at most. Are you going to be like this the whole march?”

He replied with another groan.

His thoughts drifted to the food Leonie must have stashed somewhere nearby. His provisions  _ had _ to be in the same wagon. Where else would they be kept? To his sluggish mind, there was no other answer. If he could find the food, he wouldn’t need Leonie at all.

Begalta gently nudged his thoughts, reminding him that he couldn’t so much as crawl, let alone feed himself. His mood further soured.  _ Maybe, _ if  _ someone _ would be  _ useful _ and send him  _ positive feelings,  _ he wouldn’t feel like shit!

A cacophony of  _ worry, concern, annoyance, _ and  _ exasperation _ rushed through him. Which in turn made  _ him _ feel worried, concerned, annoyed, and  _ highly _ exasperated! He wanted to throw something. More than that, he wanted to  _ get up! _

Fed up, he reached for the energy stored in his dragonstone. A smothering blanket of **_disappointment_** shut him down as it always did. As soon as the disappointment faded, he was left depressed, in pain, and _miserable._

His stewing in self-pity was interrupted by a warm hand carding through his hair. His eyes focused on Leonie, bent over with a worried look on her face.

“Are you sure you’re up to this? No offense, but you look worse than usual.”

He scowled at her. “I’ll be  _ fine _ as soon as we get to Enbarr. I should be with the others, not shoved in the back of the supply train.”

He was met with her rolled eyes. “You’re still fussing about that? You need to rest. The others have a handle on it for now.” He knew they did. It didn’t make him feel any better about his usefulness (or lack thereof). “Look, I get it. This battle might be one of the greatest events in Fódlan’s history. Even I can feel the pressure. I know some of the others are pissed at you,” that was putting it lightly, “but I get it. If I was bedridden and had some magic way to keep fighting, I’d do it too. And I'm not even half as important as you.”

“Then help me up and take me to the front.”

She shook her head. “You’re not thinking straight. You need to save your strength for the real fight, not wear yourself out before then.” She poked at the taut skin of his cheek. “You’ve got a little more meat on your bones to burn, but you need to be careful!”

“Trust me,” he deadpanned, “I have no intention to die now.” Not after the hell of getting this far.

Leonie huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’d be pretty pathetic. So take care of yourself, got it?”

“I’m not being given a choice.”

She patted his head. “Damn right you’re not.”

_ Two days _ of enduring this. He didn’t even have Hilda to snuggle some of the cold away. Or Linhardt, who was a lesser but still appreciated snuggler. As much as he hated his sickbed, at least it didn’t jolt his body every so often like the wagon did. Two whole days of being trapped in the prison of his worthless body.

“Despite everything, it’s a comfort that you’ll be on the battlefield with us.”

“Tch. Even when I’m like this?”

“Hah, you say that like you can’t flip a magic switch that makes you into a borderline immortal killing machine.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Excuse me? Remember Ailell? Merceus? Hell, that random bandit encampment that you decimated back when we were students? On the battlefield you’re unstoppable. Off the battlefield you run circles around everyone. You’re kinda terrifying Claude. In a good way! I’d hate to be your enemy.”

He didn’t know how to reply. His inability to offer a reply only drove home the point that he was so much less like this.  _ Before _ he had an answer for everything.  _ Before _ he was witty and sharp tongued. Silence dragged on as Claude tried to think of how to reply. As he tried to focus he lost the clarity of what exactly she  _ just _ told him, which only frustrated him further.

“Hey now, don’t sink back into that funk of yours. Gah, I’m horrible at this. Marianne or Hilda should be with you.”

“Hilda’s too recognizable as someone important, and Marianne’s not a good guard. And neither of them fly.” The supply train he was smuggled into was a few hours behind the main force. He and Leonie would fly to the front a few hours before everyone reached Enbarr. Which was an endless amount of time from  _ now. _

“Oh, so I’m not important?”

He sighed. “That wasn’t what I meant…”

“I was just teasing. Sorry.”

“I’m not important either,” he grumbled. “Completely replaced…”

“Whoa now, that’s not true at all. It’s taking all of us to scramble to fill what  _ you _ alone did. And no one has your special brand of out-of-the-box thinking. It isn’t like you to doubt yourself.”

The wagon must have rolled over a rock, lurching and sparking agony through him. He barely stopped himself from shouting.

“You should probably sleep.”

“Can I eat first?”

She sighed. “No Claude, you can’t.”

He knew that. Another 45 minutes left, roughly. “I’m cold,” he quietly whined. He hated that he’d been reduced to  _ this. _ To go from being so capable to  _ this _ continued to grate at him, drawing him further into his mood. “I hate this so much.”

“You’re buried under, like, six layers.”  _ Seven, actually. _ “You’re still cold under all that? I can try and dig up another blanket for you.”

“Don’t bother. You could set me on fire and I’d still be cold.” Now that was an idea. Maybe if he—  **_Disappointment._ ** He heaved a groan, squeezing his eyes tight. “I feel like someone dumped me on a mountain peak in Sreng in the middle of winter. Naked. I’m freezing and I can’t even shiver.” 

“O-oh. Sorry. That sounds miserable.”

He croaked a laugh. “That sums it up!” 

Leonie went silent. He resigned himself to pathetically not-shivering and dreaming about food he couldn’t eat. If he was lucky, he might drift off.

Then Leonie started shifting his blankets. He glared, not even opening his eyes. “I’m using those.” She unwrapped his cocoon. His intended groan came out as a whimper. She lifted him, shuffled around some more, slightly repositioned Begalta, and  _ finally _ began rewrapping him in his blankets.

“There we go… how’s that? Any better?” She said from behind him.

All he could do was heave a sigh. “Warm…”

“My da taught me that if I ever got stuck in a snowstorm with another person, huddling together is the best way to keep warm. So if you’re cold, this might help, yeah?”

Despite the still present pain and hunger, he spared her a weak grin. She sat cross-legged with him bundled up against her, his knees tucked against his chest. Blankets were wrapped around them both. A feeling of safety welled inside his chest. 

Maybe the next two days would be survivable after all.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


In just a few hours they would fly out to rejoin the others. He couldn’t  _ wait _ to feel the warmth from his dragonstone. But those few hours felt an eternity away. He was trying to distract himself by watching Leonie.

“Leonie? What’s that?”

Leonie paused from where she was reorganizing their supplies. There was a covered object that she kept checking on. From his position he couldn’t tell what it was. But he was  _ certain _ he just watched it twitch.

“Just an ace for this coming battle. Heh, you’re not the only one with a surprise up your sleeve you know.”

“Is that what I think it is?”

She nodded. “A few weeks ago we found it stashed away. Apparently Lady Rhea kept it after we retrieved it.” Leonie pulled the sheet off of the weapon. Claude hissed at the sight.

_ The Lance of Ruin. _

“Did you, by any chance, forget what happened when we retrieved that weapon? With Miklan?”

She scoffed. “Of course not. I still have nightmares about that sometimes.”

“Uh-huh. Then  _ why are you holding it.” _

“I’m in no danger, calm down. Oh, right! I guess you wouldn’t know, sorry. I’ve been helping Linhardt out with his research. The past few weeks have been a wild ride.” Leonie pulled out a chain around her neck, dangling a familiar purple square with a familiar silver etching.  _ Lysithea’s Crest of Charon. _ “Not sure how close it is to having the real deal, but I’m in no danger when wielding a relic with this. Trust me, we tested it. A lot.”

“That sounds horribly reckless.”

“And you sound horribly hypocritical.” She winked. “We’ve been careful. Besides, it’ll be worth it seeing the look on people’s faces. C’mon Claude, think of it! This nobody commoner girl, wielding one of the legendary hero relics.”

He frowned at the slate, dangling back and forth on flimsy chain. “What if you get separated from the slate?” How long would it take for someone without a crest to transform into a demonic beast? Would she even notice if she lost it? Plenty of horrific  _ what-ifs _ churned through his brain.

“I’ll just make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Claude pressed his lips together. “I think… No, I  _ know… _ I can give it to you. Or something. If you want.” The corner of his mind lit up like a firework, explaining everything and nothing to him.

“Wait, ‘give it to me’? Like, give me a crest permanently. You’re saying that’s something you can do.”

“More or less. It won’t be exactly like a natural crest, but it won’t be an abomination like what they did to Lysithea.” He made a face at that. “It’s… gah, I can’t explain it. I can take it back if you change your mind.”

She regarded him for a moment before shrugging. “To hell with it. I trust you.” He still didn’t understand how people could say that so easily and  _ mean it. _ “Let’s do this.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. Let’s see… Charon goes… at the wrist, right. Put my hand on your wrist, like I’m trying to take your pulse. Sandwich the crest-slate between our hands.”

She did as he asked. With knowledge that wasn’t his own he  _ pushed _ and  _ wove _ the slate, dissolving it into her skin. It felt like grafting an apple branch onto a non-fruit bearing tree. Except the tree was a human, the apple was magic-dead-dragon-essence-stuff, and Claude wasn’t a farmer.

He blinked.  _ Lightning-Charon _ meshed with something… warm? Tangy? It was like tart, sun-warmed orange juice with a twist of cherries, gently spritzed straight into his eye sockets. He felt a burst of familiarity trickle over from Begalta, but he couldn’t parse the meaning. There was something steadfast and burning inside of Leonie, trickling  _ so _ faintly under and through the new current of Charon.

“Huh. You’ve got some crest blood in you…”

“What? Claude, I’m as common as commoners get. I don’t have a crest.”

“Didn’t say you have one. Just the blood. Don’t need a crest to have traces of it in your blood…” That was something he knew from his King’s Mark. It was how nearly anyone in Almyra could be born with it— only a single shared ancestor was needed. Diluted as it was, dragon blood was still dragon blood. “Daphnel, maybe? Yeah, I think it’s Daphnel… maybe a hint of Gloucester. Huh.” He realized that, without that trace, he wouldn’t be able to ‘graft’ a crest onto a person at all. Not in any safe manner, at least. Without the crest-blood, there wouldn’t be room in a person’s body for a path to be formed.

“I am  _ so _ going to rub this in Lorenz’s face.”

He weakly grinned, appreciating the distraction from his pain. “Who knows, maybe you two are the grandchild of the grandchild of the grandchild of the same ancestor.”

“Does this mean that the rest of my village has people with crest blood? If I have a distant ancestor, then…”

“Probably. Most of Fódlan’s population probably has a drop here and there. Think about all those crestless kids born to nobility hundreds of years ago. A few generations later and no one’ll even know their great grandfather was the third son of a king.”

She looked down at her wrist, silently rubbing over the spot where the crest-slate dissolved. “Am I supposed to feel anything? It felt a little sparky at first, but now I don’t feel anything.”

“Good, you shouldn’t.” He yawned. It still rubbed him as  _ odd _ that most crests felt subtle. His was the  _ least _ subtle thing in existence.

“Hey, we’ve still got a few hours before we leave. You should get some rest, oh Saintly Leader.”

He grumbled into his blankets. “Not a stupid saint.”

She shuffled his blankets to curl herself around him. “Maybe if you don’t want to be called a saint, you shouldn’t go around doing saintly acts. You just  _ gave me a crest. _ Permanently, if I want it. That’s like, Saint 101!”

He scoffed, relaxing against her despite himself. “I just moved the crest, it’s not that hard. I can’t create them like a saint. Besides, I’m literally a heretic. I don’t worship Sothis, you know this.”

She ruffled his hair. “History’s still gonna remember you as ‘Saint Claude’, you know.”

He groaned, knowing she was right. If he was lucky, he would be remembered as something different in Almyra’s history. Hopefully not as the naive fool that never made it back home.

“Stop that.” Leonie began running her fingers through his hair. “I can hear you fretting.”

“Since when am I so transparent?” he grumbled, his body preparing to sleep without his say-so.

“Get some rest Claude. We’ll be at Enbarr soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude: Pst… hey kid, wanna buy a crest? Risk free with a life-time money-back guarantee!  
> Lysithea: This is literally my trauma.  
> Leonie: But now without the horrifying experiments. It’s eco-friendly and ethically* produced! Juice me up Claude!  
> *Dragons may have been harmed in the original production of crest and crest-related products


	29. Awakened Body

High on his wyvern (he  _ so _ missed flying), he observed the Alliance forces driving into Enbarr. There were civilians still in the city slowing the assault.  _ Using civilians as a buffer. _ Not even he would stoop to doing that. He tugged on his reins, ducking out of the way of a barrage of rocks. 

“Hilda, Lysithea! Take out that ballista!” The pair turned to charge the ballista at his order. Teach, Marianne, and Lorenz provided coverfire as Lysithea obliterated the unfortunate soul manning the mechanism. With that taken care of, they resumed their course towards the Death Knight.

One less thing trying to shoot him out of the sky. The battle was going well, but they still had plenty of ground to cover. Hubert loomed in the distance, surrounded by his battalion of warlocks. To the west were the masked dark mages that Lysithea had warned them about. And best of all— flying demonic beasts to deal with. Hooray.

With the ballista taken care of, Claude wheeled around to the eastern side of the city. Raphael, Ignatz, Linhardt, Flayn, and Seteth led their forces around the side, working to flank the Imperial forces and get the leap on Hubert.

Leonie was by his side as he flew between the two groups, firing support from above as he shouted out orders. He was  _ ‘allowed’ _ on the battlefield under the condition that he keep someone by his side at all times and that he fully step into his role as tactician first, archer second. Usually it was Byleth that gave the real orders on the battlefield, as he was more of a long-term tactician. But that wasn’t to say he couldn’t command in the heat of battle. 

_ So far so good. _ The Empire had been ready for them, but preparation could only do so much. 

Claude fired a shot straight through the back of a mage’s neck, interrupting the spell aimed at Raphael. The War Master roared, his shimmering Axe of Ukonvasara raised high. Raphael’s stamina had always been terrifying to behold and now was no different. With the Saint’s Weapon, he was an unstoppable wall. With that axe  _ and _ his new major crest of Gloucester… 

Yeah, they were doing fine.

He and Begalta twitched together in sync. He  _ felt _ the nearby shift before he heard and saw it. A great  _ caw _ sounded. Rising above the city flew a gigantic demonic beast. He traded a look with Leonie. They grinned.

“You got left?”

“And you got right. Let’s do this.”

Begalta’s silver arrows tore through the beast’s shields. Leonie’s arrows followed shortly, firing two shots for every one of Claude’s. He whistled. The Inexhaustible really was something else. But the great beast didn’t go down yet.

He fired another arrow as the beast tore through the sky directly towards him. Begalta’s arrow struck the beast’s mask dead on. With a screech, the flying beast halted its charge to claw at its face, the mask already crumbling away. Leonie capitalized on this by firing a few arrows into its wings, forcing it to land hard. Unfortunately, it landed between two clashing groups of footsoldiers. He cursed. The beast might kill a few Imperials but it would take out just as many of Claude’s troops.

Claude’s eyes latched onto the creststone embedded in the beast’s forehead. He lost focus on the battle for a split second, an alien idea crystalizing in his mind.  _ Stars, _ if he could pull it off… 

Begalta hummed with excitement. He grinned.  _ Let’s do this. _ “Leonie! Distract it!” Claude brought his wyvern into a dive. Holstering Begalta, he pulled his feet from his stirrups. With his teeth, he tore off one of his gloves. At the last moment, he raised his reins and brought his wyvern arching into a curve. Just as he was level with the beast’s head, he jumped.

Ignoring Leonie’s shout, he scrambled for purchase on the beast’s face. It roared, shaking its head and flapping its grounded wings. Soldiers below screamed, but the beast wasn’t focused on them yet. He hung on. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bright blue beacon of the Crest of Charon. The beast howled as Leonie scored its side with the Lance of Ruin. For just that moment, its head stopped thrashing enough for Claude to get a grip with his ungloved hand. To get a grip on the  _ creststone. _

It was different from his dragonstone. It was different from Lysithea’s crests. There was a metallic, acidic taste of tar that wriggled across his mind. It left a waxy film on his metaphorical tongue, prompting him to gag. It was  _ artificial _ and  _ hollow. _

Against his chest, Begalta radiated relief. There was no ancient soul trapped within. As horrible as the artificial thing was, at least it wasn’t another tormented Nabatean.

He  _ yanked. _ Not with his hand, but with something unseen. He  _ twisted.  _ The beast fell silent, movements stilling. It gave a hissing gasp like steam escaping a boiling pot. He  _ pulled. _

His footing fell out from under him as the beast dissipated like smoke. He landed in a crouch. Taking in the frozen battlefield, he rose to his full height. Before him trembled a man, wide-eyed as he touched his face. The man was clothed in prison rags, unkempt and malnourished. He gaped at Claude. He fell to his knees, bowing his head at Claude’s feet, babbling nonsense that might have been a prayer, might have been thanks, might have been nothing. Claude’s stomach twisted. He wondered who the man had been, wondered if someone could fully recover from being warped into a beast.

Claude lifted the pointed creststone that pulsed and thrashed in his hand. Bringing it above his head, he  _ unwound _ the creation. He  _ felt _ the explosion of energy as he shattered the creststone, its power dissipating harmlessly into the sky. He methodically dusted his hands together twice before slowly twisting to face the platoon of red.

He grinned, all teeth. “Surender is always an option, just as a reminder.” He unholstered Begalta. She pulsed silver. “Any takers?” Half of the forces ran, dropping their weapons. Claude had to give the trembling forces that remained credit— they were loyal. “I’m not a big fan of senseless bloodshed. But don’t mistake my mercy for weakness.  _ Last chance.” _

He heard movement behind him. Before he could check, the remaining Imperials bolted, frantically retreating towards the Imperial palace. Not the ‘surrender’ he wanted, but oh well. With any luck, they would sow panic.

He turned, expecting to see the yellow of the Alliance. He was momentarily gobsmacked to see familiar faces.

“Well well, this is a surprise reunion,” he called with a grin. “I do hope you’re here as allies this time.”

Clad in blue stood the remaining Blue Lions. Bloodied and battered but steel-eyed with weapons drawn. Gaping at Claude.

Ashe was the first to regain his tongue despite looking the most shaken. “Saint Claude! We are  _ not _ your enemies, I swear it!” He held a fist to his chest and gave a deep bow. “You spared my life at Ailell. My duty to my fallen king is to end the Emperor's reign of terror, but to you I owe my life.”

Claude blinked, showing none of the surprise he felt. “Ah, I see. I’m glad you made it out.”

“What did you do…?” Ingrid whispered, barely audible over the cacophony of distant fighting. “You— the beast—”

Claude’s eyes flickered down to the man sobbing near his feet. Perhaps killing him would have been more merciful. “Just a little magic trick.” He waggled his fingers and winked.

“Since when do  _ you _ have a crest?” Sylvain sputtered, pointing a finger at Leonie.

Leonie winked, grinning. “What’s wrong? Upset a commoner can use your fancy lance?”

There was a nearby boom.

Dedue stepped forward, giving a small bow of his head. “We come for Edelgard’s head. The battle still rages.”

“You’re all welcome to join us. Working together will multiply our strength.”

“Our objective is different. I swore to offer her head to His Highness, and that is what I am here to do. But until then, I see no reason why we cannot fight together.”

Claude grinned. “Great!” He whistled, calling down his wyvern. “We can catch up later. The Alliance forces should be converging at the palace steps by now. Meet you all there!” He took off into the sky, Leonie following.

“Since when could you do  _ that?” _ Leonie called to him as soon as they were out of earshot. “Do you know how to do anything by halves? You’re supposed to be taking it easy!”

His only reply was a wink and a cheeky grin.

Examining the battlefield, Claude took note that the Death Knight was dead. Very dead,  _ finally. _ The Deer were joined together for the final push against Hubert and his forces. Claude swooped down, landing between Teach and Hilda.

He swung off of his wyvern. “Hubert!” he called. “Continuing to fight is senseless. It’s over, lapdog!”

Yellow eyes snapped to his. Sweat poured down the pale man’s face. The last of his forces faltered, leaving Hubert alone and surrounded. With the swirling magic at his fingertips, no one was willing to risk edging closer to the powerful warlock. 

“If it isn’t  _ Saint Claude,” _ Hubert drawled, sounding perfectly in control despite every sign pointing otherwise. “Quite the mythos you’ve built for yourself.”

Claude twirled an arrow, grin easy and eyes narrow. “You’re surrounded. Give up.”

“Oh? You would accept my surender?”

Claude’s grin tightened. “I  _ am _ somewhat known for that by now.” He spread his hands wide, knowing he was backed by all of the Deer. Hubert was alone. Claude was not. “You're a smart man. This is checkmate, Hubert. I’d much rather take you alive.”

“A pity for you, then. My life, for Her Majesty!”

Claude saw the magic in the warlock’s hands and reacted. He nocked his arrow and prepared to fire, accepting the blast he was about to take head-on. He prepared his crest to heal him. Begalta hummed in his ear, the skittering burn itching under his skin as he aimed. He waited. No use being healed  _ before _ he was struck by Hubert’s spell.

But Hubert wasn’t aiming for him. Hubert’s dark hands pointed behind Claude, just past his shoulder. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Claude didn’t have time to see  _ who _ it was aimed at— one of his Deer, he knew that. He rammed his shoulder in the direction of Hubert’s gesture. There was a shout as he bodily shoved someone out of the way. Then Claude was struck full force by the Luna spell.

His first thought wasn’t  _ ‘ow’. _ No, that was his third thought. First, he noted that this was the first time he had ever been struck by a Luna spell. His second thought was that it felt  _ nothing _ like real space, hissing and sizzling and tugging at his skin.  _ Then _ he thought  _ ow, fuck. _

“Hold!” He commanded, his voice cracking. Ignatz’s arrow flew wide. Lorenz’s spell struck a nearby bush. Leonie twirled her lance to strike Hubert’s gut with the butt end, knocking him over instead of skewering him. Hilda’s axe stuttered above Hubert’s neck. Raphael redirected his kick, slamming his boot into Hubert’s chest and keeping the manned pinned instead of smashing his head. He met Byleth’s eyes, the slightest bit wider than usual. It was a blaring sign to Claude that Hubert had surprised them. They gave him a long look, one of those looks he still couldn’t quite understand what they meant. Then they nodded.

Marianne was at his side, locking an arm around his shoulders. He heaved a sigh, leaning on her. Without his crest activating, the spell hurt like a  _ bitch. _ Nothing compared to his usual pain, but pain was still pain. His chest heaved like his lungs had been scooped out, crushed, and haphazardly replaced. 

_ His crest. _ It skittered along his skin, ready to pounce. He remembered the last time he repressed his crest. The silvery nosebleed back at school seemed a lifetime ago. With Marianne's help, he limped over to the restrained Hubert. As Claude approached, Hubert spat on his boots.

“Got me good! I’d chastise you for playing dirty, but that’d be hypocritical of me.” He panted, unable to pull in a full breath. “Last words?”

“Your weak heart will see you devoured,” Hubert hissed. “Stop toying with your food, von Riegan.”

Claude hid a wince. He doubted Hubert realized the grain of truth to that statement. “You  _ really _ don’t want to be taken alive, huh. Worried you’ll be used as a bargaining chip against Edelgard? Or maybe you know something?” Damn. Keeping Hubert alive would be useful, but risky. Perhaps he would have been willing to take that risk. But Hubert forced his hand. Claude couldn’t be healed by faith magic. That left his crest. And Hubert was the only nearby, subdued target. He needed to be at the top of his game to fight Edelgard. He withdrew Begalta’s sword. It  _ was _ an executioner’s sword, after all. “Seriously, any last words?” Claude asked, voice soft this time.

Hubert just closed his eyes.

“Stars guide your path, Hubert.”

He brought the blade down on Hubert’s neck. Quick and painless. His crest flared, his magic-inflicted wounds repairing themselves.

He pushed away from Marianne, standing strong on his own. His crest faded. “We’ve taken the plaza! Time to regroup. We’ve got some fun new faces in our old friends of the Blue Lions. Let’s give Edelgard a proper greeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update. Given that this is a shorter chapter, next chapter will be out in a few days.
> 
> rip to the missing Blue Lions. At least more than Dedue survived. They'll show up more in the next chapter.


	30. Awakened Heart

“You are nothing but a puppet of the Goddess, Claude. Or is it  _ Saint Claude _ now?”

“I see my reputation precedes me.” The fighting behind him faded from his mind. He trusted Begalta and the Deer to guard his back. He had faith in them. It was just him and Edelgard. “Come now, you know I’m no worshiper.”

“Your ideals, I understand they’re not so far removed from my own.” She lifted her chittering axe. Something about it struck Claude as artificial, just the same as the artificial creststone from before. “But without sufficient knowledge of this land’s suffering… I can’t entrust Fódlan to you!”

“Perhaps. I daresay it’s true that I don’t fully understand the history of Fódlan. Still, I’ve seen many things in my life.” He held Begalta steady, arrow nocked and ready. “Edelgard. We can both come out of this alive. You’ve already lost. You can surrender here and now.”

“If you think I will surrender, you’re far greater of a fool than I ever anticipated.”

She charged him. He loosed his arrow. As he expected, she shielded herself with her axe, deflecting the arrow. He ducked past her first strike, twisting around her body. She continued her momentum, swinging at him as she whirled. He caught her axe on Begalta’s shell, twisting her spikes to catch the chittering axehead as their weapons locked. Edelgard bore down on him, pushing more force than he thought possible. Teeth grit, their foreheads nearly touched as she slowly began to win their battle of strength.

“Not often I’m matched,” she hissed. Despite her claim, she was  _ much _ stronger than him. In a fair fight of brawns he was outmatched.

Claude slammed his forehead into hers, pushing her back for a moment, he— 

_ Unending burning and swirling strength of sky. Chant of victory, victory,  _ **_victory._ ** _ Blazing wings of vengeance, chained under an open sky. Domination stamped and branded, burning and withering all it touches, hissing above the calm poise of retribution and—  _

It felt like snorting black pepper, lavender, and burning embers all in one go.

He gasped, throwing himself out of the way as Edelgard’s axe nearly beheaded him. She nicked a sharp line down his chest, cutting into his armor and slicing away his cravat. He mentally swore as he saw that part of his chest was exposed. The one advantage was that it stuttered Edelgard’s advance on him.

“You have two crests.”

She stiffened, eyes on his chest. “And it seems the rumors of your undying nature hold some truth.”

He quirked a grin. “Hey, we can bond over crest bullshit! You, me, and a friend of mine should start a club. Say, you terminally ill too?”

Edelgard was still very much on guard, circling him like a vulture, but she wasn’t advancing. “To think, we’ve walked the same path being unaware of it. A shame I must kill you.”

“They can be removed,” he quickly said. “Your crests. You don’t have to die.”

Her face twisted with rage. “You  _ dare _ lie to me?!”

“It’s been done already. To another like you, one with two crests.”

“Lysithea,” she whispered.

“Ah, so you knew. You’re working with the people that did this. Why?”

“Sacrifices must be made for a better world.”

“You can’t build a better world on a foundation of blood and torture.”

“You know nothing. Just a foolish idealist, unwilling to get his hands bloody.”

He gave a low chuckle. “You’ve clearly never met me if that’s what you think. So, no convincing you? We could work together. You want a world without crests, but you don’t even understand what a crest is.” He readied himself. “Perhaps I don’t know Fódlan’s history as well as you, but you don’t have a  _ clue _ why history happened the way it did.”

“Oh, you are  _ very  _ wrong about that.” She shifted like a viper preparing to strike. “I know all about those  _ beasts!” _

Claude fired.

He loosed five arrows before Edelgard got close, two managing to hit her. She roared, driving her axe down on him in an overhead swing. He darted back, grunting as stone shattered and pelted him at Edelgard’s missed strike. She swung again, but Claude was done attempting to extend his hand.  _ Left, right, _ he dodged back and back, the unnatural stamina from his combined crest keeping him fresh. She went for another devistastating overhead swing, but this time Claude was ready. He braced Begalta, both hands gripping her bone on either side as he knelt, preparing to catch Edelgard’s axe and disarm her.

Her chittering axe would catch against Begalta’s spikes. With a twist, Claude would lock her axe against his bow and in her surprise the axe would be wrenched from her hands. Even if she managed to foresee his plan, the angle was right that she would be unable to do anything but drop her axe.

That was his  _ plan. _

He knew Edelgard’s strikes were strong. Impossibly strong. But Begalta was also impossibly tough. A thousand years and not a scratch on her bones. 

He felt the  _ crack  _ down to his soul.

There was screaming, he noted. He was pretty sure it wasn’t him. 

_ Oh. _ He realized his mistake. Edelgard’s axe wasn’t made of Nabatean bone. Apparently, it was made of something stronger.

He held the crumbled halves of Begalta. She was screaming in his head. Edelgard stood above him, axe raised. She looked down at him, eyes cold.

Edelgard seemed to move through molasses, her movements slowed to a crawl. His ears were muffled. His chest hurt. His body felt… muted.

No.

No, he felt something.

_ Rage. _

His face twisted on its own accord. The screaming slipped from his mind as Begalta slipped from his fingers. 

Edelgard’s axe was above him.

He acted on instinct, years of underdog sparring against Nader the only thing keeping him alive. He dove at her, her axehead smashing into the ground where he just was. He slammed his head into her stomach. She sputtered, but Claude wasn’t finished. The dagger tucked in his sash found its way into his hand. He roared, grappling her to the ground. His advantage of surprise did not last long. She was much, much stronger than him. He had her beat on viciousness and cheap tricks, but with her strength it didn’t matter. She clenched her hand around his jaw. He felt his bones creak. He slashed against her chest, managing to slice open a section of her armored dress. He shoved his ungloved hand into the slash, finding skin.

“You spend your last moments  _ groping _ me?”

He wanted to tear out her heart, but that wasn’t an option. So he went with the closest thing.

She went rigid, her grasp on him weakening as he  _ took and took and took. He took the imprinted victory. Took the branded superiority. Took the flame that didn’t belong.  _

It tasted like ashes melting against his tongue.

_ “Bitch.” _ In her moment of shock, he slammed his fist against the underside of her jaw, her neck snapping backwards at his coldclock. She made a choking noise, going limp. 

He punched her face. He punched her, again and again. His glove was bloody, both inside and out. His ungloved hand was bloody. He grabbed her throat and took the  _ natural _ part of her too, the  _ endless sky, raging birdsong, wings of vengeance—  _ he yanked it away from her. Her face was lit aglow with silver and his broken hands healed as he continued to punch her.

He reared back to punch again, but this time his fist wouldn’t move. He tugged, but he couldn’t move his fist. He whirled, snarling, coming face to face with— 

“It’s over,” Raphael told him.

He heaved in breath after breath, the world feeling foggy. The Deer clustered around him, concerned or fearful or worried or— he wasn’t sure.

His chest ached. He tried to soothe Begalta. Except she was gone. It was only him.

He swallowed. “It’s over?”

“We won.” Hilda’s whisper shouldn’t have been so quiet. It should have been cheerful, but it wasn’t. “It’s over, Claude. We did it.” She sounded tired.

Marianne knelt by his side. “How are you feeling? That wasn’t like you at all.”

His eyes drifted back to Edelgard. She was still breathing, shallowly. He closed his eyes. Her face was a bloody pulp. He was glad Begalta prevented him from having nightmares, because— 

_ Begalta. _

“Begalta,” he croaked.

“Come again?” Ignatz quietly asked.

He scrambled to stand. “Begalta!” He stumbled to where he dropped her. Teach knelt by the shattered bone fragments. Seteth and Flayn were there too. Seteth was stricken, grief marring his features. Flayn held her hands clasped over her mouth.

“No, no, no…” His hands hovered above her creststone. “Teach, is— is she—”

“I don’t know. But she needs you calm.”

He sucked in a few breaths. Teach was right. He needed to be calm. He cradled the fragment of her shell that held her creststone. The bow was well and truly shattered, wrent into multiple pieces. Begalta’s creststone was held in place by a disk, darker in color than the rest of the tan bone. Half of the disk still had bone clinging to it.

She screamed. Claude squeezed his eyes shut. The screaming grew deafening as he raised her to his chest, pressing her against his heart.  _ Calm, calm, calm, it’s okay, it’s okay…  _

It wasn’t okay. It  _ wasn’t okay, _ she screamed back at him. Slowly, her screaming subsided. It wasn’t  _ pain _ exactly that she (and thus Claude) felt. It was  _ wrongness, _ a  _ loss, _ something unnamable. It wasn't okay. 

But she _would_ be okay.

“Well?” Seteth hissed at him.

“She’ll be okay,” he rasped.  _ “Stars. _ She’ll be okay.”

Seteth slumped like a puppet with his strings cut, raising a shaking hand to his face. “I am glad to hear it.” Flayn too looked relieved, though not as much as Seteth.

Teach nodded at him. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

“Not to interrupt this moment…” Lorenz interrupted, “but an explanation would be  _ highly  _ appreciated.”

“Claude,” Hilda whispered, “is your bow  _ alive?” _

Claude flinched. He gave an awkward chuckle. Hilda was one of the few people that knew about his 'attachment' to Failnaught, though he'd never told her the full extent. “Depends on how you define alive. Guess there’s nothing for it.” He turned to Seteth. “You alright if I…?” Seteth gave a grave nod. “Right.” He shakily exhaled, patting Begalta’s creststone. She jittered but remained somewhat collected. “Everyone, this is Begalta. She’s the spirit trapped in Failnaught, more or less. We’re, uh, soul-buddies.”

“The implications…” Linhardt mumbled. “It kept your heart beating, before…”

He winked, giving a poor excuse for a smile. “What can I say, she likes having someone to talk to. Can’t chat with me if I’m dead.” 

“How does someone’s soul get stuck in a relic?” Leonie questioned, giving the Lance of Ruin a wary eye. “Is it like what happened with Miklan? I’m not holding his trapped soul, right Claude?”

Claude shook his head. “No. It’s complicated, and I don’t know all the details myself.”

“It isn’t sucking out  _ your _ soul, right? Is this why you’ve been sick?” Raphael asked, wide eyed.

“That can’t be right,” Ignatz interjected. “He’s been getting better despite still being in contact with, ah, ‘Begalta’?”

“She’s been very stubborn about keeping me alive,” Claude replied. “Like I said, we’re friends.”

“Is the…  _ spirit,” _ Lysithea looked physically pained to say that, “the reason why you lost it and started wailing on Edelgard?”

He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck (considering the blood on his hands). “I’d do the same to anyone that hurt any of you. You all know I’m protective of my friends.” He blinked, surprised at himself.  _ No, _ they didn’t know that.  _ He _ didn’t even know that about himself. But it wasn’t a lie. It was startling to realize how deeply he cared about the Deer. Was that new? That had to be new, right? Why did he feel so— 

“Psst, leaderman,” Hilda whispered loudly, giving him a double-thumbs-up. “We didn’t know that, but we appreciate you!”

He cleared his throat. “I’m usually better at nipping the problem before anyone gets seriously hurt. I’ll admit I might have gone a bit overkill, but y’know, adrenaline…” 

“Is she, um, okay?” Marianne asked, only a touch hesitant as she nodded at Begalta. “I don’t know if I can help her, but I can try…”

His hand clenched tighter over her creststone. “She’s not in pain. She can’t feel exactly. Just confused and scared. But thank you Marianne.”

“Well, any friend of Claude’s is a friend of mine!” Raphael declared. “Nice to meet you Begalta! Wait, can she hear me?”

Claude chuckled. He felt mentally and emotionally drained despite his body still thrumming with energy. “Thanks Raph. She says hi back.” She didn’t, not really. She wasn’t in any position to reply currently. But she would have liked to say hello back if she could think straight, he was certain.

Lorenz was giving him a  _ look. _ It was his  _ ‘you-are-ridiculous-why-are-you-like-this’  _ look. “Were you anyone else, I would have my doubts as to your truthfulness.  _ Why _ is it that I find myself easily accepting the notion that Failnaught has a  _ soul _ residing in it, one that you managed to befriend of all things? Goddess, this isn’t even the oddest thing involving you that has occurred this month. Or this week.”

“You know me, gotta keep everyone on their toes.” He stood, still clutching Begalta to his chest. He cleared his throat. He had wasted enough time. “Report: anyone injured?”

The Deer stood up a bit straighter at that. Lorenz was right— by now, they all took strangeness involving Claude in stride. “Only scrapes,” Marianne reported.

“Good. Now we—”

He was interrupted by a low groan. “Ah! She’s still alive!” Hilda shouted, not the only one to jump.

Teach knelt beside Edelgard. “She lives,” they confirmed. “If she receives medical attention soon, she won’t die.”

Claude nudged Edelgard with his boot, grimacing. He’d really done a number on her. He didn’t regret it, exactly, but he wasn’t proud of it either. Watching him lose control to his anger must have been a sight for the Deer. Aside from in his sickness, he hadn’t lost his cool so thoroughly since he was a boy. He clucked his tongue. “Alright everyone, looks like we have the privilege to decide the Emperor's fate.”

“She’ll be dangerous to keep alive,” Hilda told him. “She shattered Fail— uh, your… bow-spirit-friend… thing. Doubt there’s any prison that could hold her.”

“That actually won’t be a problem anymore.” He kicked the two dark-purple slates into view.

Lysithea gasped. “Two crests. Just like me.” She ran her fingers through her hair. The roots of her hair were growing in with a beautiful shade of lavender, but the rest was still white. The same shade of white as Edelgard’s.

“The implications of that are alarming,” Lorenz stated the obvious. “Yet, given the dark fiends she was in leagues with, I cannot find myself surprised.”

“I thought she wanted to build a world without crests,” Ignatz murmured. “Why go and implant one in herself?”

“To make herself stronger,” Leonie stated. Her eyes flickered to him. “I allowed Claude to do the same to me.”

Lysithea clenched her knuckles white. “That’s  _ different.  _ I can’t imagine anyone going through what I did willingly. Perhaps her harsh views on crests are a result of a second crest being implanted.”

Leonie tightened her grip on the lance of Ruin. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d never sign up for something like that. But Edelgard’s always had conviction. Remember how seriously she took everything back in school? Obviously she doesn’t care how high of a price she has to pay to get what she wants.”

“That’s one way to define her,” Linhardt muttered as he gathered the two slates. He sputtered. “This is the Crest of Flames!”

Teach peered at the slate. “Just like me…”

“We need information from Edelgard,” Lysithea blurted. “We can’t kill her. I—  _ we _ need to know more.”

Claude pursed his lips. “I’m not sure you’ll get an answer you like.”

“I don’t care. I need to know.”

Linhardt nodded. “I second that. Edelgard has important knowledge. Her execution can wait.”

“If the public learns she lives, there will be problems,” Lorenz argued. “Her followers will never truly give up unless, crude it may be, we present her corpse.”

They were interrupted as the throne door slammed open. “Looks like we were beaten to the punch.” Sylvain’s voice echoed across the throne room.

Claude felt something thrown around his shoulders and neck. It was a testament to how much he innately trusted the Deer that he didn’t even flinch. Which _should_ be alarming. Instead it felt oddly nice. Comfortable? Yes, he felt alarmingly at ease.  _ Something to be examined at a later date…  _ Looking down, he saw Leonie’s orange jacket thrown over his front. He felt her tie the sleeves in a knot behind his neck. It took a moment for it to click for him: his cravat was gone and his chest was exposed. A weird flash of  _ something _ warmed his stomach. “Good catch, thank you,” he murmured. Gratefulness? Fondness?  _ Later, _ he could examine that  _ later. _

Claude examined the four Blue Lions. Sylvain leaned heavily against Ingrid as he limped. Ingrid herself used L úin as a crutch. Ashe’s hair was stained with his blood, staggering somewhat. Only Dedue appeared without injuries, though it was difficult to tell if any of the blood coating his armor was his or not.

“She’s really dead. I can hardly believe it,” Ashe gasped.

“The hall is clear of Imperial reinforcements,” Ingrid reported. “The palace is secure.”

“It’s good to see you all made it,” Claude called back to them. He was  _ very _ glad they survived. Sylvain and Ingrid especially would be beyond useful in restoring and integrating Faerghus. Dedue likewise would be a godsend when it came to restoring Duscur.

The four of them approached, Dedue leading. He bared his axe, nodding to Edelgard. “I will be taking her head now.”

“Wait.” Teach put themself between Edelgard and Dedue, resting a hand on his axe. “She isn’t dead.”

“Oh? What are you all waiting for then?” Ingrid stood up straight, pointing Lúin at the fallen emperor.

“She knows about the people that hurt Lysithea.” Raphael stood in front of Ingrid. “We gotta make sure they can’t hurt anyone else ever again!”

Lorenz cleared his throat. “We are in the process of deciding her fate.”

“You’re not serious. We came here to kill her.  _ You _ came here to kill her! What’s there to decide?”

“You guys are seriously considering sparing her?” Sylvain was casual with his words, but his smile was sharp. He turned to Seteth and Flayn. “Even after the death and destruction she’s caused? The church has been decimated and Faerghus is in shambles.”

“She will not escape judgment,” Seteth stated. “She will be tried by the Church. Before then, however, we  _ must _ know the whereabouts of Lady Rhea. If anyone knows, it will be Edelgard herself.”

“But what if she escapes?” Hilda asked. “If something happens, she could restart the war again!”

“Exactly.” Ingrid nodded. “We dispense justice  _ now, _ before she slips through our fingers. Faerghus demands justice for what she has done.”

“I don’t know, Ingrid,” Ashe murmured. “I’m not saying we let her get away with anything, but don’t you want to hear her reasonings? Maybe it will give us closure.”

“His Highness is  _ dead _ because of her! Felix is dead because of her! No words from that  _ bitch _ will bring closure.”

“Neither will her head,” Ashe softly protested. “We won’t find peace from more violence. Isn’t it more honorable to give her a fair trial, even when we know the outcome?”

“Some people do not deserve such treatment.”

Leonie threw up her hands. “I’ve had enough of this! Why are we even arguing? We question her, then we kill her! Everyone’s happy— it’s not complicated!”

“You mistake us,” Dedue’s deep timber rang through the throne room. “We are here for her head. It is as simple as that.” He raised his axe. “We are not enemies. But I shall fulfill my oath to His Highness.”

At Dedue’s declaration, everyone bristled. Weapons were drawn. The Lions were outnumbered, but a fight would be a pyrrhic victory at best. He  _ really _ did not want another Gronder.

“We will  _ not _ be fighting,” Teach,  _ blessed Teach, _ declared. At their voice, everyone froze. “Enough lives have already been lost. Put away your weapons.” It was not a suggestion. It was an order. And Teach was not one to be ignored.

Tension was palpable in the room. Seteth spoke up. “It was the Church that Adrestia first declared war on. We have jurisdiction. After she has been tried and duly executed, you may have her corpse.”

“See… we’re not willing to risk that,” Sylvain said. “Been burned one too many times.”

“We can trust them, though,” Ashe quietly said. “I may not have very much faith in the church… but I know that neither the professor nor Saint Claude will allow anything to go wrong.”

Ingrid shook her head. “Prince Dimitri’s soul will never rest until justice has been delivered. I won’t allow him to suffer any longer than necessary.”

“Wouldn’t Dimitri rest easier if we learn the truth?” Claude finally spoke up. His eyes were glued to Edelgard’s axe, still chittering on the floor. “Edelgard is not alone in her actions. There’s more going on here. Something isn’t adding up. She’s one person. More than a figurehead, but she’s too young to have orchestrated everything. This war has been in preparation years before she came into power.”

“We’re aware,” Sylvain replied. “According to Prince Dimitri, she was the one responsible for the Tragedy of Duscur.”

“She is responsible for the slaughter of King Lambert, Glenn, and countless others! She plunged Faerghus into years of turmoil!”

Claude hummed. “The Tragedy? That was, what, back in 1176? Nine years ago?” He gestured to Edelgard. “You think a fourteen year-old orchestrated that? You think a  _ lone _ fourteen year-old could do that?  _ Unassisted?  _ Don’t know about you four, but personally I’d rather know who  _ really _ caused such an event. And we have someone who knows right here. But if you’d rather take her head, potentially allowing the  _ real _ enemy to get away…” He remembered some of Dimitri’s old ramblings from the last time he saw him before Gronder. “Wouldn’t Dimitri rest easier knowing the people responsible for his suffering will never harm another soul?”

Dedue spoke up. “After you have what you need from her, do you promise us her head?”

Claude turned to Teach. While he would prefer avoiding unnecessary death, he knew Edelgard living would only cause problems in the future. Her death was the practical solution. But it wasn’t really his choice to make. Now that there was a chance to properly spare Edelgard, he knew Teach would fight for her future.

Teach bowed their head, their expression pained. “She was my student once. Perhaps not my class. But she was once my responsibility. I will deliver her to you myself, when the time is right.” Claude noted that they didn’t say they would deliver her  _ head. _ He wondered about that.

Like magic, the Lions folded to Teach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Edelgard survives! (it surprised me too) All it cost was one legendary OP relic.


	31. Exposed Heart

It was over. The war was done. Enbarr was theirs. The Empire had fallen.

The Emperor was dead.

Edelgard was, in all official channels, dead. Her axe and arm was proof enough. The Deer and Lions were all eyewitnesses — the Emperor was dead. The priests even identified the arm as Edelgard’s. In a bid to take out Emperor Edelgard once and for all, Lysithea and Lorenz had struck her with combined magical might, completely destroying the majority of her body. Perhaps it had been overkill, Lysithea admitted, but it was better than the alternative.

No one questioned the prisoner they found, her face so horribly beaten as to be unrecognizable. No one questioned the fact that the prisoner was missing an arm. Her hair was shaved, her body strong but small and sickly. Perhaps it would be more accurate to claim no one cared to notice such a small detail amidst the whirlwind of victory. Clearly she was another victim of cruel experimentation. She had yet to wake and would need time and healing to recover. The woman was placed with the other victim they rescued: the poor babbling mess of a man that was once a demonic beast. 

Seteth and Flayn took it upon themselves to return to Garreg Mach early as part of their duty. Now that the war was over, there was much to be done. With them they took the two victims — the beaten woman and the former beast — so that they could receive more thorough treatment in the monastery. With a reluctant heart, Seteth left finding Rhea in the hands of the acting archbishop and Claude.

No one questioned why Dedue dutifully followed them. For the few that noticed and the fewer that cared, there was gossip that perhaps the wayward man of Duscur was adrift without his prince, hoping to find purpose through the church.

Claude was exhausted and it was barely past noon. He rested his hand under his sash, tied across his shoulder over the slash in his uniform. Underneath he’d fashioned a sort of sling-necklace for Begalta. Seteth had taken the rest of her bones with him back to Garreg Mach to be placed in the holy mausoleum. Begalta herself was still something of a humming mess in the back of his mind.

With his other hand he rubbed at his temple. By the skin of his teeth he managed to convince Sylvain and Ingrid to return to their territories instead of playing guard to Edelgard. Adding them to Dedue would make Flayn and Seteth’s pair of prisoners suspicious. Beyond that, Claude needed them to _go home already._ Their territories needed their presence. Given the upcoming mess of sorting out the nobility, Claude wanted as many pieces that he knew the loyalty of on his board. 

Stars, Faerghus was going to be a mess to deal with. Who was he kidding, _Adrestia_ was going to be a mess too. Over half of the nobility had been purged under Edelgard and now more of it needed to be purged of Edelgard’s cronies. He could at least appreciate Edelgard’s merit-based system, because that was going to stay by necessity. There weren’t enough trustworthy nobility in place to even begin to… 

“You sure are deep in thought, boy.”

“It’s not like we just won a war or anything.”

Judith clasped her hand on his shoulder. “Come, sit. No need to pace.” She led him by the elbow over to a chair. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this new Judith. She was the same as the old Judith, just… softer. Sadder, somewhat. Uncertain. He was conflicted about how to act around her change in demeanor, but she was surely just as unsure how to act around him.

He buried the bristling frustration at her gentle touch. He smiled instead. “I’m not glass, I’ll remind you. I _did_ nearly beat the emperor to death with my fists alone.”

“Don’t push it, boy.” _There_ was the sharp tongue he was used to. “You’re not as invulnerable as you pretend to be.”

He scoffed. “I’m more aware of that than you.” He was dreading going back to his helpless state but it would be necessary soon. 

The sharp retort he expected never came. She just took his chin in hand and thumbed his cheek. “How do you feel?”

He looked away, at a loss on how to deal with this gentle woman. “Right now I feel great. Remember how I’m not made of glass?” His stomach fluttered with conflicting emotions. It was a struggle not to squirm under her gaze. He didn’t know how to deal with this kind of attention. It was uncomfortable, but he didn’t entirely hate it? Now wasn’t the time for sorting out emotions. “How’s the city taking the news?”

“Overall not bad. Most people are sick of Edelgard’s war. The people aren’t celebrating in the streets, but there’s a hopeful feeling to the air. They’re waiting to see what happens, watching how the wind blows. With any luck, the city will give no resistance.”

“Good to hear. News on Rhea’s whereabouts?” 

Judith handed him a parchment. “Given to me by one of Edelgard’s remaining former generals. Supposedly it’s from Hubert in the event of defeat.”

Claude unrolled the parchment. “Another enemy, just great,” he muttered as he read. “‘Those Who Slither in the Dark’… so those are the people responsible for Remire and Jeralt’s demise. Let’s see… ‘enemy of the Children of the Goddess and the people of the world.’” His heartbeat picked up, an involuntary shudder running through him. He wished he hadn’t sent Seteth on ahead. Claude was decently sure that ‘Children of the Goddess’ referred to Nabateans, being that the Nabateans were Sothis’ children. He wanted to question Rhea without Seteth hovering, but his insight would be very useful right now.

“Hm, looks like these are the people that caused those javelins of light. Ah, and Hubert traced it! To…” 

He stared at the paper.

“Oh. This is a prank.”

“A prank? Boy, what are you on about?”

He shook his head. “Shambhala. Really Hubert? Hah, good one. He had me going there.” He shook the paper at Judith. “That place is a myth. It would seem Hubert’s trying to get us to spin our wheels, even after his death.” He frowned back at the paper. _Shambhala._ It was impossible.

“Shambhala? What’s that mean? Finish reading the damned thing before you dismiss it all.”

“I was going to do that anyway. Let’s see. Horrible enemy, yada yada… Ah, here’s something about Rhea. She’s in a secret chamber.” He pursed his lips. “Perhaps it’s a trap. It would be very _Hubert_ to point us to Rhea and rig the place to blow up in our faces.”

“You’re wholly convinced the letter is fake, then?”

“No. I don’t get it. Everyone _knows_ Shambhala is a myth. What’s he trying to play at here?”

“I’ve never even heard of it.”

“How do you not—” he froze. Shambhala was an _Almyran_ myth. Everyone in _Almyra_ knew about it. But as far as he knew, no one in Fódlan knew the myth. Which meant Hubert shouldn’t have even _known_ the name. “No. No way.” He dropped the letter on the table. “It’s been in _Fódlan_ the whole time?! What a cosmic joke! Of course no one found it!” Dregs of horror washed through his body as he realized the implications. “You know, some of the myths say that Shambhala holds an endless army. Some say opening the buried city will unleash the end of life as we know it.” _Granted,_ some myths prophesied a new era of untold riches. There were a lot of myths about the place, more of them conflicting than not.

“Excuse me? Just what the hell is this place? How do _you_ know of it?”

“Maybe this is a false trail. We’ll look for Rhea. If she’s where Hubert says she should be, then we’ll be forced to consider that Hubert might be telling the truth.” He grimaced. “If that’s the case… I’ll explain everything I know. I hope to all the Gods and Goddesses out there that my information is nothing more than exaggerated fairytales.”

_Time for Rhea to finally spill some answers_

  
  


* * *

Rhea was… 

She looked awful.

Rhea stared at Teach with glassy eyes, an outstretched hand shaking. Her hand landed on Teach’s cheek, letting out a soft gasp as she made contact. “You… You have come to save me… Is this… Is this a dream? I have longed to see you again… all this time… is it truly you?”

Teach gently brought Rhea’s hand away from their cheek. They gave a silent nod. Their feelings towards the archbishop were understandably complicated. For poor Teach who grappled with basic emotions on a good day, it must be rough seeing Rhea after all this time.

Rhea’s eyes slowly shifted to Claude. She jolted as though she hadn’t noticed him until now. “Claude… I can see you have grown into a reliable young man… Thank you for supporting the professor, and for rescuing me. Surely the protection of the Goddess has—”

_Hah, protection of the Goddess._ “Wait, Rhea.” Knowing his luck, if he allowed pleasantries to stall the conversation, something would interrupt what he needed to hear. “We need answers. Tell me, do you know of Shambhala?”

Her eyes widened. “No… no… how do you know that name?”

_Damned hells. It seems Hubert didn’t lie._ “For one, we’ve received a report about an ancient enemy within the lost city. We have no solid information. I know this must be a painful question to ask you after your imprisonment, but it’s important. ‘Those Who Slither in the Dark.’ Do you know that name?”

Rhea vacantly stared at nothing.

“They practice awful blood magics. They can drop great javelins from the sky with enough power to crush a fortress. They’ve been pulling cruel strings throughout Fódlan for decades, if not centuries. They’re planning something big. If you have anything you can tell us, please do.”

“...”

_Of course_ Rhea didn’t want to say anything. Nevermind the fate of Fódlan (and maybe humanity itself) Rhea still wanted to keep her secrets. “The time for secrets has passed. This enemy, they hate humanity. Beyond that, they hate the _Children of the Goddess.”_

Rhea remained silent. 

“The Children of the Goddess. _Nabateans._ That’s what your kind are called, isn’t that right?”

Rhea startled. “How…?” _Got her._

“Let’s say I’ve done my digging. This enemy, no doubt they seek to finish their revenge and kill the remaining of your kind. I think it goes without saying that Teach and I don’t want that to come to pass. Nevermind the harm they’ve caused humanity. _So,_ unless you want to face this threat all alone, tell us what you know.”

Rhea’s gaze drifted to the ground. She trembled. As harsh as it was to press her after five years of imprisonment, he _needed_ this information. Seteth likely had some of the pieces to this puzzle. But his interrogation would have to wait until Claude returned to Garreg Mach. He also had the feeling that Seteth didn’t know as much as Rhea did.

Teach reached forward, laying a hand on Rhea’s arm. She drew in a deer breath before nodding. “It is true, I have heard of the group of which you speak. They have threatened Fódlan’s peace since ancient times. I am sure you have heard stories of the man named Nemesis.”

This wasn’t what he expected.

“The original wielder of the Sword of the Creator,” Teach mumbled, eyeing the blade at their hip.

“The King of Liberation,” Claude finished. Begalta hissed something _enraged._ His heart skipped a beat, his expression threatening to crack under her sudden emotion.

“Nemesis led a group of bandits. He plundered the Holy Tomb and stole the remains of the progenitor God. When Nemesis appeared in Zanado, he wielded the Sword of the Creator.”

“How did he get the sword?” Teach asked, a note of hesitance to their voice.

“I do not know.” Claude narrowed his eyes. Oh, Rhea knew alright. “But he used the sword to massacure the people of Zanado. The children of the Progenitor God. From their corpses he gained more power, and brought war to Fódlan.”

Claude gave a full body shudder, Begalta crying out in his head. “Ah,” was all he could utter. His heart pounded. The uneasiness that plagued him since he read Hubert’s letter bloomed into something far, far worse.

_Screams echo through the canyon. He runs through the mountain corridors, shouting his own alarm to any left unaware. Foolish of him. As if the others couldn’t hear the dying screams of their kin._

_He rounds a corner and comes face to face with a man. In the man’s hand is some sort of whip-like blade. He takes a step back, but the man has already noticed him. The man flashes teeth in a terrible smile._

_He bares his own teeth, calling upon the power granted from his mother. His vision sharpens. His eyes so perfectly memorize every crisp detail of the man advancing on him. Scales crawl across his skin as he grows, claws out and ready to strike._

_He never gets the chance._

_The whip lashes out and curls around him, biting effortlessly through his scales. He screams and roars, but the weapon only digs deeper._

_Claude spends his last moment regretting that he won’t die under the night sky._

Teach’s hand was on his arm. He let out a shaky breath. He’d never seen a memory like that from Begalta. Not while he was awake. He rolled his shoulder, phantom stings of the Sword of the Creator still playing out in his mind. He rubbed at the sting, half-surprised when his hand came away blood-free.

“A mere bandit like Nemesis would not have been capable of anything so monstrous on his own,” Rhea’s eyes gazed off into nothing, her voice sounding like a lost girl. “He had assistance from those who hated us most…”

_Agarthans._ The word whispered into his brain like a red-hot nail. _Agartha. The people of Agartha. Monsters._ He was both desperate and terrified for Begalta to remember more.

Claude swallowed thickly. Rhea was too out of it to notice his own slip up. He thought Rhea would tell them more about Shambhala, not… _not this._ “So they used Nemesis to achieve their own ends. Ah. Just as they used Edelgard and the Empire to wage war.” Her Crest of Flames. Her artificial chittering axe. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “She used them right back. Judging by Hubert’s letter, she planned to fight them after the war.”

He was especially glad that they spared Edelgard. He had so many questions for her. He shared a look with Teach. They nodded, silently understanding him. “I’ll talk to her.”

They planned on doing that anyways, but he was grateful. He wasn’t sure how much time Marianne would allow him to be on his feet now that the war was over. Teach would have better luck cracking Edelgard than him anyways. They had a way with people. “Thank you, my friend.” He swallowed roughly, and this time it wasn’t from the churning dread of _Agartha Agartha Agartha._ This was an older, more familiar feeling. “Rhea, there’s still a mountain of things I need to ask you. And I will. But we’ll have to leave that for another day. You should rest.”

He was running out of time.

  
  


* * *

Escorting Rhea to the surface was time intensive. She was slow, prone to stopping and spacing out. Though he was loathed to leave Teach alone with her, he separated to rush back to the surface.

“So?” Hilda greeted him, sprawled out and exhausted. All of the Deer were together taking a breather. There was much to be done, but with the city and army echoing the news of Edelgard’s fall they had time to catch their breath.

“Rhea’s alive. She’s in bad shape, but not too bad.” They’d all seen worse from him. “The city?”

“Taken care of for now,” Lorenz informed him. The prim noble was just as wilted with exhaustion as everyone else. 

“Good, good…” Claude noticed an extra among their numbers. Ashe approached Claude, dropping to one knee.

“Saint Claude, I wish to pledge my service to you. Your honor and skill, both of which you have shown in countless battles, are beyond compare. I would be honored to serve you with my life.”

His eye twitched. Unfortunately, he’d already come to the unwanted realization that his Saint title was here to stay. As much as he hated it, leaning into it would give him an edge. “Come now, stand up. I accept your pledge. But I don’t need you by my side. In fact, there is something vital I could use your help with. How do the people of Gaspard view you?”

He quickly hashed out some details with Ashe. He needed someone who wasn’t loyal to Edelgard (or greed) in Western Faerghus. Gaspard was a small territory, but it was a perfect foothold. Ashe, from what he remembered of his former classmate, was a good soul with a good head on his shoulder. Like Claude, he knew how to survive. He knew the sorts of things the suffering commoners needed, unclouded by a childhood of comfort. Those traits were much more important currently than anything else.

With one final bow, Ashe left.

“You never stop scheming for the future do you.” Hilda shook her head. “Taking advantage of sweet Ashe like that.”

“He’s the one that offered his loyalty to me. I’ll make use of,” he paused to swallow thickly, “ahem, of people as best I’m able.”

At his stutter, the Deer as one seemed to remember he was working on borrowed time.

Hilda wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, good job today. War’s over, woohoo. We’re fine without you. Let’s get you laid down somewhere. Ignatz, Raphael, go find somewhere safe and hidden for him to rest! Marianne, Linhardt, come check on him.” She placed a hand on his forehead. “How do you feel? Tired? Cold? Are you in pain? What abou—”

He placed his palm over her mouth, earning him a glare. He glanced around at the remaining Deer. After confirming that they were alone, he stopped suppressing the gag that was making his eyes water. He slammed his other hand against his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut.

There was a moment of confusion before his friends shot into a frenzy as they realized what was happening. His legs collapsed as he vomited a familiar silver bile.

_Stars,_ he hadn’t missed this.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In moments of lucidity, he tried to share what he knew of Shambhala as they traveled back to Garreg Mach.

He was aware enough to know they didn’t stuff him in the back of the supply train this time. He was somewhere up front, judging by how all the Deer rotated guarding him. He tried to argue his case for being allowed to use his dragonstone as they paraded back into the monastery. Either he forgot the resolution, or he fell asleep before he finished making his case. He doubted they would allow him on his feet anytime soon.

He wasn’t feeling so good. The fact that he missed six meals during the Battle of Enbarr probably contributed to that.

Stone hallways and echoing screams melted into the blackness of his eyelids as he woke up. With effort, he forced his eyes open. Upon recognizing he wasn’t alone, he started talking again.

“They’re a banished people. S’pposed to be… uh. There was a ruler who banished them. But he banished his smartest people. Because… uh, his kingdom was getting too big I think. So the arrogant king banished all his wisemen, his doctors, his scholars. The banished people left to found their own kingdom, hidden away. They did… stuff.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Hilda chided him.

“That story’s a lesson. The king was foolish to banish them. In some stories it’s a vain queen. The people suffered. There’s more details, but I can’t remember them right now…”

“Claude, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but these fragmented, nonsensical, half-remembered stories aren’t useful.”

“Sometimes the banished people are the bad guys. Usually not. But sometimes it’s said they got banished ‘cause they refused to stop. Kept learning more and more… even if it meant exper’mentin’ on people, or… uh, lots of bad things. But when they left and founded their own kingdom, they kept toiling with things they shouldn’t.”

Hilda ran a hand through his hair, frying his line of thought. “This is serious. You _must_ rest.”

“There’sa prophecy… Or, like, a few dozen prophecies…” He groaned, desperately grappling with his fraying mind at Hilda’s calming touch threatening to push him back under the edge. “It’s such an old story, no one knows which one was the first myth. Shambhala’s got a lot of titles. _‘The Palace of Peace’_ or _‘The Place of Silence.’_ Some call it _‘The City of One Thousand Names’_ with how many myths there are.”

“Half of your sentence was nonsense. This can wait for you to be able to speak straight.”

Whoops, he said the names in his native Almyran. He was too tired to translate them. “Some say… endless army that’ll conquer the land if the seal gets broken. The city can’t be opened without consequences… Some say breaking the seal’ll bring a Golden Age for humanity… others say it’ll spell humanity’s doom.”

_“Please_ go to sleep Claude. You _need_ rest.” He vaguely registered that Hilda was begging.

Whenever he slept, he slipped into Begalta’s nightmares. He could feel her pounding on his chest, trapped in a nightmare even while he was awake. As soon as he shut his eyes, he would be right back with her in some gruesome memory better left forgotten. Then he’d wake up again, not even remembering what he saw. He’d wake up afraid and confused. He didn’t want to sleep, no matter how bone-deep his fatigue went.

Being awake was agony. Being asleep was terrifying. At least while he was awake he could try to warn everyone about Shambhala.

“It’s said that whoever finds Shambhala will be rich beyond imagining. That the underground city is filled to the brim with gold. Others say it’s got magic and technology beyond mortal understanding. Metaphorical gold. It’s, uh… what was I saying again?”

“I’ll go get Marianne…” Hilda’s hand left.

“Don’t go.” If she left, he wouldn’t have a reason to keep talking. If he didn’t keep himself busy by talking, he’d fall asleep. If Hilda left, he would be _alone_ and _vulnerable._ “Please stay.”

“How about this: I’ll stay if you try to sleep.”

He groaned but agreed. He could feel sleep creeping up on him regardless. “I’m cold…” He _was_ cold, achingly so. But getting warm wasn't what he was asking for, not really. Hilda understood him. She always did.

“Okay.” There was the telltale sound of Hilda taking off her boots and taking out her earrings. She shimmied under the blankets with him. She smelled of perfume, sweat, and blood. She must really want him to sleep if she wasn’t complaining about getting his blankets grimy.

_‘I’m cold,’_ was his way of begging for Hilda to sleep beside him without outright saying it. He had a vague memory or two of slipping up and asking her to _cuddle_ with him. Embarrassingly, that was the truth of what he wanted. Yes he wanted the warmth she gave him, but he also wanted to be protected while he was helpless. He was growing to crave the simple comfort of a hug (or a long cuddle) just as much as he craved being warm. If he was being honest with himself, this new craving was beginning to outstrip most everything else (aside from his hunger, which remained at the top of his priorities.)

Something to examine later.

Begalta still pounded with beats of fear. Perhaps he shouldn’t be sleeping with her while she was like this, but he refused to separate. She’d been there for him throughout his worst — this was the least he could do for her. He refused to abandon her.

For all that Begalta spilled her fear into him, Hilda poured comfort and safety into his heart.

“You know, the army thinks you’re pulling another hermit stunt to think up more cunning plans. ‘ _That Master Tactician, always planning for our next victory.’_ Most are saying you flew ahead back to the monastery already. It’s so lucky that you’ve gotten such a reputation for scheming behind the scenes.”

He quirked a small smile. “I’m sure that has nothing to do with you, Master Gossiper.”

“Get some sleep, ‘kay? I’ll be here when you wake.”

With that promise, he closed his eyes. He could brave Begalta’s nightmares. Hilda would keep him safe while he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude's 'stories' about Shambhala are based both on vague allusions to in-game stuff as well as primarily the real life myths about Shambhala. More will come up about it (when Claude's more lucid).


	32. Exposed Bones

His condition back-slid somewhat. Overall his health wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He went back by about a week of progress. Unfortunately, that had been a week he’d managed a lot of ground in.

There was so much to be done and he was useless.

His dream was so close. Fódlan was unified. He _actually_ did it. He unified a continent split for centuries. It hadn’t only been him of course. But as the leader and figure-head, people heaped the credit at his and Teach’s feet.

They want him to be king.

_Stars._ They want _him_ to be king. _Want._ No one ever _wants_ him to be in charge. He was the heir to Almyra because of his father and his King’s Mark, but no one _wants_ him to take the throne. He was the Duke of Riegan because of his crest and because there had been no one else to fill those shoes, but no one had _wanted_ him to show up.

The people of Fódlan want him to be their king.

Due to politics that went over his sick-hazed mind, either he ruled or Teach ruled. There was no one else. _He_ knew it had to be Teach. He had to go back home soon. But no one else knew that.

_“I don’t know what I’m doing,”_ they told him.

_“I believe in you, my friend. We all do. You can do it. You aren’t alone. Seteth and Lorenz make for stuffy but useful advisors. They won’t lead you astray. You don’t need me.”_

He thought all they would need was a little pep talk. Teach was popular. They held an air that made them feel trustworthy. The people loved Teach. They were the perfect person for the job.

_“I can’t do this on my own. I can’t rule.”_

_“Sure you can. My health is in no condition to crown me king.”_

He thought it would all work out. Teach could do it, even if they didn’t know it yet. 

_They frowned. Such a small expression that meant so much on their face. Their eyes drifted away from him. Claude couldn’t be certain, but he would swear they looked_ guilty. _“It’s not like you to bring up your health. Why are you so adamant on rejecting this?”_

_“You don’t need me,” repeating the response was all he could muster as a reply._

_They bowed their head to stare at their clasped hands. “Seteth informed me I must make a statement clarifying how Fódlan is to be ruled. I told him I would do so after our final enemy is defeated. He told me to think on what I will say. He told me to consider whether we will rule as a monarchy, an… oligarchy, or a… theocracy, or if we wanted to scale up Edelgard’s… meritocracy.”_

_“Probably not that last one. Can’t say I want a theocracy either. But that would cement you better than the other options.”_

_“I don’t have a clue what any of those mean. Except monarchy, that’s what the Kingdom was. I think. Seteth also suggested I consider… tariff. I don’t know who tariff is.”_

Teach… might _not_ be able to rule on their own. How could Claude forget needing to step in and teach them what a _seminar_ was all those years ago? They had no formal education. Politics was not their strong suit. Standing in the corner and glowering the roundtable into submission — that was their strength.

Teach didn’t know what they were doing. Teach knew that, Claude knew that, the entire monastery knew that. It was spoken of with _fondness_ around Garreg Mach. But what was seen as an endearing quirk among a relatively small group would be seen as a glaring weakness by the rest of Fódlan.

The most popular proposed governmental system was a joint one between him and Teach. It would satisfy the monarchists of Faerghus; the two of them were basically a royal couple, even though they weren’t married or even together. It would satisfy the anti-monarchists of Leicester; Fódlan would have more than one ruler. And it would satisfy the worried Adrestrians; Claude’s competence and fairness was well known, and Teach was a third-party that wouldn’t be biased as much towards Leicester.

The people had their demands. But he had time. He had a month to figure something out. Shambhala was more important than a coronation. Teach and Seteth and Lorenz could put the scaffolds of a temporary government in place until then.

“Don’t you know how to let that big brain of yours take a break? I can _hear_ you thinking.”

“My big brain takes a lot of breaks,” he slurred to Hilda, not bothering to even open his eyes. “Sleeping is all I do these days.”

Leonie scoffed. “Sleeping and _fussing._ We’ve got things taken care of. What’s got you worried now? Edelgard’s still locked up. She isn’t talking yet, but she’s only been conscious for a day at this point. The professor will crack her soon.”

Hilda hummed. “Nope, it’s not that. He still looks fussy.”

“I do not look fussy.”

“Is it Rhea?” Hilda asked. “I bet you’re eager to ask her more stuff. So many secrets to pull out of her, isn’t that right?”

He grunted in reply. He _did_ want to pry more out of Rhea, but that wasn’t feasible given that they were both bedridden. Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed time before he learned more from Rhea. Begalta still echoed with nightmares from the snippet she remembered. She was calming down to the point where the nightmares weren’t constant, but remembering her death still affected her. He couldn’t blame her.

“Why are we even guessing? He’s obviously worried about this new _shadowy enemy_ that’s been dropped in our lap. Save your worrying for the weekend. Marianne is giving you two whole days to work with us every week. But that’s _only_ if you rest and recover in the meantime.”

He fidgeted a little. His time in Enbarr caused him to lose some precious weight, but it had the benefit of giving him exercise without immediately wearing him out. In the past few days that Marianne worked to get his weight back on track, a small portion of that went to his muscles. A miniscule amount, but anything was more than what he had before. Providing he was well rested, he could shift himself a little bit under the blankets now. Moving himself was a recipe for immediate exhaustion, but he could do _something_ now.

It was such a small thing to be able to fidget, but it gave him a way to work through the mounting discomfort. If he was lucky, he would be fed before the discomfort devolved into pain. Unfortunately, fidgeting was a blaring sign to anyone watching him that he was struggling. Not that anyone _needed_ a visible sign to know he was in pain. Fortunately, ever since getting back from Enbarr, a new habit was developing among the Deer.

Hilda ran a hand through his hair. “Almost there. Just another 15 minutes.”

_Less than that,_ he knew. His body was keying into these two-hour time slots. His hunger was still poignant and painful, but it was much more manageable. Right up until he came close to that two-hour mark. His body _knew_ it was almost food time, and with that knowledge his hunger and desperation flared up. It made him restless and uncontrollably excited. He didn’t like it, but it was better than the alternative.

There was a soft knock on the door that left him breathless with anticipation. He wondered who was here to deliver his food this time. Probably Raphael — him and Leonie were the two most commonly available to feed him.

To his surprise, Lorenz was the one to enter. Lorenz was usually busy, and even when he had free time to watch Claude, he never participated in feeding. “Don’t you have more important things to do than play delivery boy for me?”

“The professor demanded I take a break. Which I am now doing.”

“You came to the right place for a break, then!” Hilda wiggled a wave at him.

“Hilda!” Lorenz’s scandalized voice broke out as he startled. “What in the world are you doing?!”

There were a lot of downsides to his current state. But there was one tiny good thing that came out of his condition. “You’re welcome to join,” Claude replied with a smile. “I’m not picky.” Not that Lorenz ever would join. He was probably still mad at Claude.

“Wow Lorenz, you’re late to the party. This is all the rage now.”

“Leonie?!” Lorenz’s face ripened like a tomato. 

“No need to be jealous. Bed’s got plenty of room.”

Lorenz sputtered and Claude wheezed a laugh. To his left, Hilda snickered into his neck. To his right, Leonie chuckled.

“Linhardt confirmed it: sleeping with Claude is good for his health!” Leonie paused. “I could have worded that better.”

Hilda’s snickering became giggles. “Want to join in some wholesome and healthy cuddling, Lorenz?”

“I think not! This — this is not proper! You two are ladies, and—”

“Pff, and what? Are you worried about our virtue?” Leonie scoffed. “First of all, not even you think Claude would take advantage of us. Second of all, he can barely move Lorenz, yeesh.”

“Regardless of circumstance and judgment of character, it is still not proper…”

Claude groaned. “Can’t you whine about this some other time?”

“We better get some food in him before he gets too grumpy.” Hilda sat him up. He didn’t cry out anymore. It still hurt, but not as much. The all-consuming desperation was finally being tempered by routine.

Lorenz nodded, revealing a jar of liquid. At the sight of it, Claude felt his breathing pick up. The brown liquid might as well be ambrosia of the Gods to him. For a handful of his meals, Marianne allowed him to drink warm beef broth instead of the usual cream. 

“What is he doing…?” he could faintly hear Lorenz off in the distance. His attention was fully on the jar as it was passed to Hilda. The entire world might as well be in that jar. Nothing else mattered. “I’m surprised he isn’t begging.”

“He hasn’t done that for a few days now. He’s fine, Marianne says it’s normal. He’s finally got it through his thick head that he’ll be fed regularly.” Leonie stroked his hair. “Makes him docile. Weird as it is to have a silent Claude, it’s better than the alternative.” 

With one hand on his jaw, Hilda slowly began to feed him. As always, she didn’t allow him to tilt his head to try and drink faster. His body thrummed with pleasure as the warmth gathered in his stomach. It was over far too soon, but he didn’t beg. He was still hungry, but he felt full and somewhat sated. That had to be his favorite milestone. He would eagerly keep eating if he could, but the post-eating desperation he was used to was a faded thing.

He licked his lips, eyes falling shut. He was laid back down, two _warm_ and _safe_ bodies holding him. 

“What remarkable progress. Here I was under the impression he was still a… ‘hassle.’”

“Oh trust me, he is sometimes. He’s still got his ups and downs. Having someone beside him is a surefire way to wring an easy session out of him though.”

“I… see. Surely there are more, ahem, _proper_ methods to keep him company?”

“Get off your high horse already. I know you’re a repressed, touch-starved mess like the rest of the nobility, but there’s nothing wrong with this. You don't need join, so stop judging the rest of us.”

Lorenz let out a long sigh. “This helps his health, how?”

Leonie began explaining the details, but Claude didn’t much care. He felt _warm,_ and _cozy,_ and only somewhat in pain. His skin hurt, sure, but his joints ached much less than usual. He was still needled with his ever-present hunger, but at least his other aches were lessened. He enjoyed the sound of Leonie’s voice washing over him, reminding him that he was _safe._

“Add all that together plus the fact that it reduces his stress level, and supposedly this should cut down on his recovery time by a few months!”

“Aaand,” Hilda added, “snuggling is fun!” Claude refused to admit it aloud (unless he was half-asleep, at which time anything was fair game as far as his mouth was concerned) but he agreed. He _really_ agreed.

“We know you agree bud.” Leonie chuckled. “Yeah, he’s been getting more cuddly ever since Enbarr. It’s hard _not_ to indulge him when he’s like this. I’m surprised you didn’t know about this Lorenz, we’ve all been taking turns spoiling him.”

Claude could only hum his appreciation as he struggled to stay awake and present.

“I have been _very_ busy.”

“We know. But you’re not busy _now,_ because you’re taking a much needed break. So loosen up, curl up in a blanket and read a book or something.”

“My room’s the designated Golden Deer break room…” Claude murmured, only half-joking.

“I see that,” Lorenz stated. “This room has been renovated rather quickly.”

Claude, no longer able to use Rhea’s room for his sickbed (given that it was now Rhea’s sickbed), hadn’t been returned to his old dorm room. Instead he was moved to a larger staff suite. Flayn’s room specifically. He was grateful to her for that, as due to Seteth’s paranoia, the room was one of the most secure spots in the monastery. The room was easily defensible and it was just next to Seteth (and now Flayn)’s room. That alone gave him a lot of peace of mind.

He liked his new room. He liked how lived-in it felt compared to Rhea’s room. The floor was littered with cushions, an absurd amount of blankets, and a handful of comfortable chairs. A mini library was sprouting in the corner of the room, presumably from Lysithea and Linhardt. Ignatz kept an easel and painting supplies tucked off to the side. Hilda kept some makeup and a mirror on the dresser. Paperwork littered the desk. Flayn liked to hide little knick knacks for him to try and spot while he was awake. Little touches from everyone were all around his room.

Whether they napped with him or if they just shared the same room with him, the Deer never left him on his own. Most nights he woke up to find more than one of the Deer sleeping on the floor or in a cot (or in his own bed.)

Before he would have hated how they blatantly coddled him. He was sure when he got better he would be embarrassed. But for now, with no choice but to be spoiled, he absolutely loved it.

“—which is how I got a few hours free today!” Hilda was saying. Claude tried to tune back into the conversation. “Knowing how to properly delegate is a very important skill. After all, napping is important to _my_ health too! I’m doing both myself _and_ Claude a favor by being here.”

“You just want an excuse to be lazy…” Claude mumbled, unbearably fond.

_“Or,_ maybe you’re just such a comfortable spot to take a nap at.”

“Nah, Linhardt already spilled the tea: I’m as uncomfortable to sleep with as a sack of knives.”

“Aw, that’s not true! Don’t listen to Linhardt, he’s being mean.”

“Mmm… you’re a better snuggler than him anyways.”

“D’aww. You turn into such a sweetheart when you’re like this. I’ll be sure to rub that in Linhardt’s face.”

“Like snuggling with you, Hilda. Nice… and warm… and… mmm, nice…”

“Is that the only reason you like me, because of my body heat?”

“No… like you ‘cause you’re Hilda… Like you too, Leonie…”

He fell asleep before anyone could call him out for being mushy.

* * *

Roughly two hours later, Claude woke up starving and freezing. _No cuddle buddy, aww…_

He glanced over to see who his ‘supervisor’ was. He groaned at the sight of Lorenz. “Here to lecture me?”

Lorenz startled. “You’re awake. No, I’m aware you won’t listen to me if I do. How are you feeling?”

“Mmm… Careful, you sound almost fond.”

Lorenz sighed. “Goddess help me, but maybe I am.”

He blinked. “Oh. But… thought you were angry at me…?” Aside from the past few uses of his dragonstone, the last time he remembered seeing Lorenz was shortly after he woke from his coma. He starkly remembered Lorenz’s words of betrayal, accusing Claude of heartlessly using him. “Thought you hated me…?”

Lorenz’s eyebrows shot up. “We may not always get along, but Goddess above I don’t hate you!”

“Oh.” He blinked again, sleepy and hurting. He was in no state to have a conversation like this. “I don’t hate you either.”

Lorenz made a noise he couldn’t identify. “A low bar, but one I’m happy to pass nonetheless. Now, you avoided my question: how do you feel?”

He groaned. “You don’t want the answer to that. Is it time to eat yet? Please say yes.”

“Near enough, yes.”

His breathing picked up, eyes latched onto Lorenz, waiting for the usual eating-ritual to commence. Lorenz pulled out a jar of cream. It delighted Claude to no end to see the jar being filled more and more as the days went by and his stomach grew to accommodate. Claude tried to reach out, but he wasn’t strong enough to pull his hand out from under his layers of blankets.

“Let’s not have a repeat of the last time I fed you…”

He had no idea what ‘last time’ was. In fact, he couldn’t remember Lorenz feeding him at all. With his spotty memory, that didn’t mean much. On the flip-side, he didn’t care. “Shut up and feed me already.”

“Yes, that’s about what I expected.”

Lorenz fed him slowly, much to his agony. He tilted his neck to force more of the liquid down faster. Lorenz cursed, clutching his jaw tightly and drawing out a pained burble. Some of the precious _food_ dribbled down his chin, much to his mounting distress. 

Lorenz pulled away, muttering under his breath. Claude gasped, his eyes fixed on the glass. It was still over half-way full! “Wait, come back, more…”

“If you refuse to be fed properly, why should I give you the rest?” Lorenz kept talking, but Claude’s world tunneled. _Lorenz wouldn’t give him the food. Lorenz wouldn’t feed him._

“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, please…!”

“If you were sorry, you wouldn’t do it in the first place! I am aware that you’re sick, but your inability to follow _simple_ directions, for your _own benefit,_ is appalling. No, I think some discipline will help. You will receive what is left in five minutes.”

_No, no no no no…_ Five minutes might as well be five years. Hunger and panic melded into a blanketing haze. “Thought you didn’t hate me…?” Tears sprang to his eyes. One of the downsides of the progress in his recovery was that he was hydrated enough to cry now. “Thought… thought…” Claude knew he’d said a lot of awful things in order to wrangle more food out of his friends. He’d pulled a lot of guilt trips. For once, this wasn’t a guilt trip. “I trusted you…” He gasped and gasped, his chest aching as he continued to cry.

“Claude, that won’t work on me. You will be fed in five minutes.”

Betrayal simmered in his blood. Unlike usual, he didn’t find himself getting angry. Only afraid. _Lorenz can’t be trusted,_ his mind whispered. _He lied. He hates me._ His chest heaved as he hyperventilated, the sudden realization that he was helpless in front of someone dangerous smothering all other thoughts. 

The action of Lorenz refusing to feed him warped and twisted until all he knew was that he _couldn’t trust Lorenz._

_“Honestly._ It’s hard to watch you like this.” Lorenz brandished a rag in his hands. He advanced on Claude.

“No…” Using what little strength he had, he wiggled away from Lorenz’s hand. He was helpless as Lorenz followed his movements, helpless as Lorenz reached out and touched him. He shouted, terrified.

Lorenz flinched, but continued doing whatever he was doing. “You sound like I’m trying to murder you.”

The words _'_ _murder you’_ were all that he heard. Old childhood fears sprang to the surface of his mind. “No! No, no, don’t hurt me!” His eyes squeezed shut, terror and helplessness cresting inside of him as he started shrieking.

The hand at his face vanished, but he was too scared to notice. He continued wailing, _waiting_ for the inevitable stab of a dagger to silence him permanently. No one was around to help him. He was helpless, and alone, and he was _so scared._

His chest was on fire. He was barely aware as he vomited the meager contents of his stomach onto his blankets.

The door slammed open. “What’s wrong?” Raphael boomed, and Claude’s wails quieted.

“Raph, help, help, gonna be stabbed, ‘m scared, h-elp.” His throat burned.

“I don’t know what’s wrong!” Lorenz stated, prompting a flinch from Claude.

“Hey bud, what’s wrong?” Raphael’s voice whispered at his side. He wrenched his eyes open, latching onto the big man.

“Can’t run,” he gasped, begging Raphael to understand. _Raphael was safe. Raphael wouldn’t hurt him._

Raphael wrapped him in a one-armed hug. “No one’s gonna hurt you. Not while I’m around!”

Claude agreed, already feeling safer. He choked in gasps of air, his panic beginning to recede. 

“Raphael, his blanket is covered in vomit. At least clean that up before you touch him.”

Claude flinched as violently as his body allowed.

“Claude’s more important. Lorenz, what did you do?” Claude, had he been more put together, would have been shocked to hear Raphael’s voice dip low. Instead, he just burrowed himself as close to Raphael as he could manage. “Nevermind, that’s not important right now. Go get Marianne. Vomiting can’t be good for him.”

“He’s overreacting. You know he does this to get more food.”

“There’s a difference between a fake scream and real terror. You know this. Don’t have a clue what happened, but whatever this is, it isn’t a stunt for more food. Even I can tell that much.”

“Don’ let ‘em hurt me… Raph, please…”

“At least allow me to finish feeding him,” Lorenz said. Claude was too far gone to hear the guilt in his voice. All he knew was that Lorenz took a step closer to him.

“No! No, Raph, help, help,” he babbled.

Lorenz froze, his face breaking into shock. He took a step back, much to Claude’s relief. “He’s refusing _food?_ I don’t understand. He was fine earlier!”

“Hey, you’re safe, you’re safe…” He didn’t care that Raphael talked to him like he was a child. He watched as Lorenz exited the room, his entire body deflating with relief. “He really scared ya, huh?”

Threat gone, Claude felt every ounce of fatigue and pain and hunger slam into him. His chest hurt, his throat might be bleeding, he was exhausted, and he never even got to finish his meal… 

“Think you can finish eating before you sleep?”

“…Please…?”

Raphael tipped the cream into his mouth and this time he didn’t try to fight it. He let Raphael set the pace even though he wanted more. He whimpered when Raphael pulled back, eyeing the empty glass. He didn’t bother begging, though. He was too tired.

Raphael pulled away the blanket he vomited on, repositioning him to lay down and tucking him in. “Stay?”

Raphael patted his head. “Sure thing, bud.”

“Cold…”

“I’ve got ya.” Raphael kicked off his boots and settled in beside him. Claude was too tired to be ashamed of the way he pressed up against the bigger man. _Safe…_

* * *

Someone was talking to him. A hand carded through his hair. He whined, dregs of a nightmare pulling at his thoughts. His throat hurt, his ribs hurt, his stomach hurt, everything hurt. But there was someone _warm_ and _safe_ holding him.

“Time for food, Claude.”

He heaved his eyelids open, resigning himself to pain. “Can we jus’… get this… over with…?” He wheezed a weak cough.

“Where’s your usual excitement?” Raphael softly asked. “Bet you must be pretty hungry.”

Marianne raked gentle nails through his hair. Shamelessly, he melted into her touch. Raphael protected his back, and Marianne protected his front. “How do you feel?”

He just groaned.

“You need to eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Mmhmm…”

“Raphael, do you mind getting the jar? It’s on the desk over—”

Raphael started to pull away. His chest tightened like a vice. It wasn’t until Raphael froze that he realized he was chanting _“no, no, no, no—”_ He tried to get ahold of himself. “Don’t go, please, don’t leave me alone…”

“What’s this about?” Marianne murmured, resting a hand on his cheek.

“We’ve got you bud,” Raphael whispered into his ear.

As soon as Raphael’s arms wound back around him he deflated with relief. Marianne had to prod him and ask her question again before he remembered to answer. “You’re safe…”

“None of us will let anything happen to you. Is this about Lorenz? Can you tell us what happened?”

He tensed. “Dunno.”

It was hard for him to let go of Marianne as she got his food. It was only Raphael’s constant murmuring and gentle hug that held him back from panic.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


_Ah, the weekend._ He palmed his dragonstone, sighing as the warmth threaded through his body. His aches vanished and he felt like a person again. He stood and stretched, reveling in the smooth and pain-free movement.

His room was empty of anyone else for the first time since he came to occupy it. Marianne would return soon with his breakfast, but in the meantime he indulged in a frivolous activity. He owed Raphael for the thoughtful gesture of delivering fresh, warm water.

He bathed himself, grateful for the ability to do so. It was a waste of his precious time and energy, given that he _could_ be given a sponge bath (and routinely was.) But he _really_ wanted to do it himself after a month of being unable. Plus, it gave him a good opportunity to sort through his memories with a clear head.

He winced as he remembered his ‘episode’ with Lorenz. Those memories were hazy at best. He didn’t remember what tipped him over the edge so hard, but whatever it was, he’d never had such a strong panic attack. He rubbed his sternum, feeling dread just thinking about it. It was like a nightmare, but he was (mostly) sure it had been real.

His chest felt lighter remembering Raphael. Embarrassed too, but that was a familiar feeling at this point. He smiled, remembering how safe he felt when— 

He nearly beaned his head against the washbasin as his thoughts caught up with him. He felt _safe_ around Raphael. He _trusted_ Raphael. To his horror, he realized he trusted Raphael _implicitly._ It wasn’t just him, either. He trusted Hilda. _Oh Stars, he told her he was Almyran!_ He told Raphael too! And implied it to Flayn and Linhardt! He trusted Marianne, he trusted Lysithea, and Leonie, and Ignatz— 

_Stars._ He _trusted_ them. He was used to _maybe_ trusting Teach a _little_ bit, and trusting Judith to be on his side, but this? This went beyond trusting them not to stab him in his helpless state. _Hell,_ he thought as heat bloomed across his face, _he trusted them to cuddle with him._

The entirety of the past month caught up with him. He buried his face in his hands, his tattered dignity burning. He dunked his head under the water and let loose a shout. Hilda snuggled with him, yes, and Linhardt too for ‘research.’ But now _all_ of them did (minus Lorenz.) Raphael was a hugger when he slept (and when he was awake.) Lysithea drooled on him, sliding into his bed when exhaustion took its toll. Leonie manhandled him like a doll, always so gentle and considerate. Ignatz talked in his sleep, a reminder of safety for Claude that went beyond touch. Flayn gleefully wrapped herself around him and wiggled plenty, a total opposite to Marianne who slept like a log beside him.

He felt _safe_ when they slept with him.

He _loved_ feeling safe and protected. He _loved_ the warmth and comfort that they gave him so freely. He _loved_ being cuddled. He _loved_ the way they spoiled him, the way that they felt he was _deserving_ of being spoiled. He _loved_ the fact that they fussed over him, even though it should annoy him and make him feel weak. He _loved_ being enveloped and held and— and— and he _loved_ his friends, more than he’d ever loved anything. He really, really loved them, and he had no idea what to do with that fact. He was used to overwhelming bursts of emotions from Begalta, but this was all his.

And he felt _loved_ in return.

He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that this wasn’t new to him. This… _appreciation_ for his friends had been building for some time now. He _knew_ that he felt cared for, but he hadn’t had the time to slow down to _realize_ what it meant. For a _month_ his trust and faith in his friends had been growing, and blooming, and stabilizing into something that went beyond all of his defenses. 

It felt like receiving a wyvern egg that he never thought could hatch. One day it was an egg, then he turns around and finds a full grown wyvern tackling him in an enthusiastic hug. 

He finished washing himself, willing his blush to go away. He didn’t have time to be embarrassed, and frankly there were much worse things to be embarrassed about. Like how he squalled like a baby over whatever Lorenz did to upset him.

Why did he think it was a good idea to think of _more_ embarrassing things? He shook his head. Glancing down, he distracted himself by examining his body’s changes. It wasn’t much, but it never was. His stomach was making progress towards being flat. He knew some of his muscles along his arms were regrown but there was no visible evidence. His arms and legs did look slightly less like bones, at least.

Done wasting time, he dried off and dressed himself before returning to the bedroom.

“Good morning Claude,” Marianne greeted him. “I brought your breakfa— oh!”

Claude didn’t wait for her to finish speaking as he snatched the jar of milk. Really, what did she expect? He nearly dropped it as he fumbled to unscrew the cap as fast as humanly possible. Marianne laid a hand against his. He barely stopped himself from growling at her as he jerked away and turned his back on her.

The cap came off and he chugged the bottle. Rather, he attempted to. In his eagerness, much of it spilled down his chin. More of it spilled as he choked. He pulled the bottle from his lips with a force of will, coughed, took two gasps of air, licked his lips, and did the exact same thing again (with the exact same consequences.) He panted, fervently licking at the empty bottle trying to get every last drop. Then he ran his hands along his chin and neck and brought them to his lips to lick at the spilled extra.

A handkerchief entered his line of sight. He blinked, slowly, before a rush of mortification slammed into him. He slumped onto the bed, accepting Marianne’s handkerchief and wiping his face down. He passed the empty bottle back to her, unable to look her in the eyes. He wasn’t even _hungry_ like this! He had no appetite to speak of, yet the siren call of food sang to him nonetheless. It seemed his body was in enough of a habit to crave food at this point that even when it stopped craving, his mind still did.

She patted his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Like that pillow looks like an excellent way to smother myself.”

She tisked. “That’s hardly the worst thing you’ve done.”

“Ouch, no need to be so blunt.” He buried his face in his hands and groaned. “I’m supposed to be at the top of my game like this. Not nearly drowning in my attempt to drink a glass of milk. I still need to eat every two hours, don’t I.” For once, he dreaded meal-time. He shook his head. “I’ll be more prepared for it next time.”

“I won’t waste your time — let’s get your vitals.”

_He really loved Marianne._

“Love you too,” Marianne replied with an unbearably soft smile.

He jolted, realizing his mouth betrayed him. “Neat. Thanks. Hell, what a rough start to the day.”

Marianne walked him through various tests now that he was able to stand and participate in them. Marianne didn’t bring up his slipup, or the fact that his face was surely red, or the fact that he kept mindlessly leaning against her whenever he had the chance. She didn’t mention any of that, which was why he liked her.

“I hope you like me for more than just that,” she laughed, ruffling his hair.

_Oh damn._ Arching his head into her hand, he realized he might have a problem. _Loving his friends_ might not be the only habit he developed over the past month. _Trusting them implicitly_ might be much, much more dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt chapter title: Lorenz tries his best (and his best sucks)
> 
> Golden Deer: Thank fuck, he's stopped screaming and begging. All he wants is cuddles? A small price to pay.  
> Golden Deer: Oh hey this is kinda nice  
> Claude, being given love and affection freely for the first time in his life: what is this. I'll take your whole stock
> 
> Sleepy!Claude: i want CUDDLES. if i cant demand food, i demand LOVE and COMFORT  
> Awake!Claude: I do not know this man
> 
> 'Ace(or Demi) touch-starved Claude who goes buckwild when he finally has people he trusts to cuddle with' is my AGENDA, I am NOT SORRY that literally everything I write reflects this


	33. Secure Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: Very minor mentions of past suicidal ideations.

It was hard to leave Begalta behind, but her creststone couldn’t fit under his dragonsilk uniform without leaving a suspicious bulge. He barely had room for his flatter dragonstone to fit. Dressed, hair and makeup presentable, and all of Marianne’s tests completed (for now), he was free. As free as he could be.

As much as Marianne disapproved of him walking more than necessary, he went the long route to get from place to place. He needed to be seen by the people of Garreg Mach. According to Hilda, he was getting a reputation for being a hard-working recluse. It suited him fine, but he didn’t want that rumor shifting into something more in line with the truth.

“Well well, how’s it going, Your Majesty To Be?” Sylvain greeted him with a flourishing bow as Claude entered the cardinal’s room. He was the last to arrive, but he wasn’t late. He was perfectly on time.

Ashe joined Sylvain’s bow. “Saint Claude, it’s good to see you again.”

“Glad to see you both as well,” he replied. Glad to see they were able to peacefully return to their seats as heirs more than anything.

“We appreciate Your Grace and the archbishop consulting us,” the last representative from Faerghus said. Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius was the spitting image of his late son, but his countenance was a stark opposite. Calm and poised, all with eyes that betrayed a deep sadness. 

“We as well,” the primary Adrestian representative stated. “We of Adrestia are beyond grateful for the opportunity the Leicester Alliance and Church of Seiros has granted us, Your Grace.” He clasped his hand over his chest and bowed his head, the best he was able to do. 

“We’re progressing towards an era of unity for all of Fódlan. To exclude a third of our voices would be counterproductive,” Claude replied. “It’s good to see you again, Prime Minister Ferdinand.” ‘Prime Minister’ for only a handful of days now, and a powerless one currently, but Prime Minister nonetheless. “I trust you are being accommodated? I urge you to speak up should you find your needs going unmet.”

Ferdinand’s smile was one Claude recognized. It was well masked, but from what Claude had been through, he could see it plain as day: Ferdinand’s injuries left him in pain. “Your kindness is noted. However, I implore you not to worry — such a detail has not diminished my mind. My fiery spirit has never been so strong!” He raised his fist to prove his point, and it was a good show. But Claude could see the fatigue dragging his frame. Gone was the eternal optimism and boundless energy from five years ago. War had hardened the noble, and loss and pain doubly so. Despite the subtle haggard appearance and the tiredness to his eyes, Ferdinand was still the same earnest man as ever. Claude knew that sort of pain well, and his respect for Ferdinand had never been so high.

“Of course. I wasn’t implying you to be any weaker.” Claude reached out and shook Ferdinand’s hand. He went one step further to clasp his elbow. Sincerity wasn’t a big thing for Claude, but he allowed his smile to soften and become genuine. “The war has taken much from us all. I’m grateful for your survival as well as your persistence. Many great men have been halted by less, and yet here you are today. Still here, still fighting for your people.”

Ferdinand nodded slowly, a confused understanding passing behind his eyes. “So long as I am welcomed here, I shall be here. Even if I must crawl, I will serve Adrestia with all I have.” Ferdinand was as aware as everyone else in the room: in any other political environment, the loss of his legs would have ended his career.

“But it won’t come to that,” Adrestia’s second representative said, coming to stand behind Ferdinand’s wheelchair. “It’s been a while, Duke Riegan. Or do you prefer Saint Claude?”

“Come now, most of us are former classmates. No need to be so formal. Claude is fine, or whatever you feel most comfortable with. You know I’ve never been one for formalities.”

Dorothea smiled, burn scar at the corner of her lips puckering. “Charming as ever. I admit, I’m surprised I received the summon, but I’m grateful nonetheless.”

“I’m sure this isn’t where you saw yourself ending up five years ago. But I haven’t forgotten your shrewd mind, nor how in touch you are with the common people. Inclusivity is the key, as I’ve always said.” He felt a bit guilty for implying credit for Lorenz’s hard work, but it was necessary to maintain his reputation. _Claude_ was supposed to be in charge and making decisions. 

She nodded primly. “Quite. At the war’s end, I assumed I would be putting my voice back to work.” Her hand raised to touch the edge of the scar on her face. “I suppose I am still doing that, just not with the opera. The suffering commoners of Adrestia will thank you, Your Grace, should your word prove true.”

Dorothea was a bit of a gamble. According to the briefing Claude was given, she was a staunch supporter of many of Edelgard’s ideas. She _wasn’t_ a supporter of war though, and in theory a lot of Edelgard’s ideas were good. Dorothea, much like Ashe, was a good champion for the commoners.

“Well said, Miss Arnault. This meeting will set a precedent for generations to come.” The last of Adrestia’s representatives spoke. “We trust that Leicester will be just and gracious victors. So much of Adrestia has suffered under former Emperor Edelgard’s war.” _Deflecting blame._ An expected move from an experienced politician. 

“Indeed. All of Fódlan has. Thank you for coming, Count Hevring. Your experience with the inner workings of Adrestia will be invaluable.” 

The second part of the gamble. As much as not involving nobility from Edelgard’s government would be preferable, having an insider was vital. House Hevring and House Bergliez were the only two houses to avoid any members being purged. It seemed that was more due to a lack of corruption than any loyalty towards Edelgard. Count Bergliez, being the former Minister of Military affairs in the war they _just_ fought against, was deemed too biased. Hevring on the other hand, less so. Most importantly, they had Linhardt and his judgment of his father. _‘A shrewd mind who will take any inch you give him, but I wouldn’t call him evil or anything of the like. He’ll gladly grab any power if you let him, but that’s just nobility for you. Far too exhausting. Keep an eye on him and you should be fine.’_

“Now that pleasantries have been exchanged,” Teach’s voice rang out, “it is time to begin.”

This was the ‘unofficial official’ council that Teach and Lorenz pulled together. This was their compromise until Shambhala was taken care of. Fódlan was war-torn and needed aid _now,_ not a month from now. Preventing mass-starvations when winter came was already going to be a struggle. Taking a leaf out of the Alliance, this was the temporary solution. 

Claude took his seat at the head of the table with Teach. As the two ‘leaders’ of the winning factions, they were the two in charge. _Monarchs indeed._ A big departure from the Round Table was that no one else held any power. The council was present to _advise_ him and Teach, nothing more.

At the corner to Teach’s left was Seteth as the secondary Church representative. Formally Rhea was also invited and technically their third, but for obvious reasons she was absent. Not that Claude minded that one bit. To Claude’s side at the turn of the table sat Lorenz and Judith as his second and third representative from Leicester. 

The meeting began in earnest. The first detail was to poll the general state of Fódlan on a whole. Faerghus was in shambles. Sylvain and Ashe together painted a grim picture, but they made an efficient team. Ashe was in-touch with the general populace if a little rough around the political edge. Sylvain, surprisingly, was a very competent politician when he actually bothered to try. Rodrigue was little more than a guiding hand, though that itself was priceless. His experience made up for Sylvain and Ashe’s lack.

The Empire’s march through western Faerghus had been so destructive that five years later it hadn’t recovered at all. Ashe cited Cornelia as the biggest contributor. Infrastructure had been targeted — farms and roads alike were destroyed. The cold north fared little better. Cornelia’s influence only hindered recovery. The more Claude learned about the former ruler of the Dukedom, the more clear it was that she was actively sabotaging both Western and Northern Faerghus. Eastern Faerghus was better off, having never submitted to Edelgard or Cornelia’s rule, but the years of fighting took their toll.

Faerghus: overall, not doing well.

Adrestia was suffering from the double whammy of power vacuum and lack of manpower. Ferdinand and Dorothea made a terrifyingly efficient team, to the point that Count Hevring barely needed to step in. Ferdinand laid out what Adrestia _needed_ in no uncertain terms. Dorothea took Ferdinand’s earnest truth and spun it in Adrestia’s favor without altering facts. 

Adrestia had the largest population of Fódlan. _Had._ They _might_ still, but the hazy numbers of death that Dorothea provided were a horrifying estimate. Faerghus lost countless lives too, but the five year war did damage to both sides. Farmland was vacant. On top of that, every person with the smallest amount of clout, down to the lowest baron, were beginning to vye for power.

Adrestia: overall, not doing much better.

Leicester was what he knew. Leicester was _fine._ Oh, wartime stretched some wallets thin and people died too. He wasn’t discounting that. But Leicester hadn’t been invaded aside from some border territory. What he loved about Judith and Lorenz was that neither of them tried to pretend that Leicester needed just as much support as everyone else. Doubtless if Claude involved the Round Table, the discussion would be over _war reparations._

The Round Table. They weren’t happy that Claude (and Teach) weren’t involving them. They were, according to Judith, throwing daily tantrums. They couldn’t touch Claude, not now, but if they weren’t dealt with Claude might have a revolt on his hands. He _definitely_ would as soon as those nobles realized Claude had _zero_ plans to scale the Round Table up to a Fódlan wide government. Claude _refused_ to allow them to preside over Fódlan. He’d been bashing his head against _that_ brick wall of uncompromising nobles for the past five years. The idea of scaling that _up_ rather than down was horrifying. A council of five nobles could hardly agree on what to eat for lunch. Progress of any sort would grind to a halt under that kind of management.

Claude needed something to keep everyone happy without stealing Faerghus and Adrestia’s last loaf of moldy bread.

Leicester: Same as the past five years.

Faerghus’ farmland was destroyed at best, salted at worst. Adrestia’s farmland was by and large empty. A recipe for mass famine if he’d ever seen one. The solution was obvious to Claude, but oddly enough no one seemed to see it.

“Faerghus will starve,” Sylvain slowly intoned. “We live in snow for over half the year. We don’t _have_ grain stores left.”

Rodrigue gave a minute shake of his head. “That’s not to say we have _nothing._ We will not be too weak to defend ourselves.”

“Then clearly you won’t need _our_ grain stores,” Count Hevring drolled. “Adrestia will barely have enough as is. Leicester must share with both of us.”

“By my findings, Adrestia should be self-sufficient if we play our cards right,” Ferdinand interjected. 

Ashe pinched his brow, beginning to buckle under the pressure. “Regardless, without aid, there’s no way the commoners of Faerghus will have enough! It doesn’t matter _who_ the grain comes from, but we’re going to need it.”

“On the contrary,” Dorothea swept in, “it does matter. If the grain is Adrestian, then every Faerghan peasant you feed means a starving Adrestian peasant.”

“So you both want to put the burden on Leicester,” Judith said. “So far your cases are both begging. We’re under no obligation to give charity. Obviously we don’t want anyone to starve, but we haven’t come out unscathed either.” It was harsh, but Claude knew what she really meant. _If Leicester gets nothing in return, the Round Table will revolt._

“Perhaps we can create a debt plan?” Lorenz mused. “With fair interest rates. If both sides pay back the grain when they are back on their feet, that should satisfy everyone.”

Judith shook her head. “If we _had_ that surplus, maybe.”

“Come now, settle down. I think we are all missing something here.” Claude turned to Lorenz. “Tell me, what month is it?”

Lorenz flashed alarm for the briefest of moments. A blink and he was back to appearing impassive. Claude wanted to roll his eyes. He didn’t _forget_ the month and decide to ask for funsies in the middle of a meeting! He wasn’t _senile._ He was mostly sure it was… the Garland Moon?

“The Blue Sea Moon, Claude. How is that relevant?”

Oh hell, really? His birthday was coming up. Never thought he’d live to see another one of those. His point was still valid. “It’s late in the season, sure. But why don't we take the Faerghus farm hands whose farms were destroyed… and the empty farmland in Adrestia… and…” he made a motion with his hands, squishing them together. “I’m certain plenty of people in Leicester would jump at the chance to invest. No one starves and everyone’s happy.”

Of course it wasn’t _that_ simple. It was late for planting, for one. The logistics would be a nightmare. The yield probably wouldn’t be enough to cover the deficit. And there was a _lot_ of tension between Faerghus and Adrestia. Actually, that was the only issue everyone was shouting about.

“The church can smooth the way,” Teach stated, drawing the room into silence. “We can act as a buffer.”

Claude nodded. "Excellent idea. It will take time to transition, but we are no longer three warring nations. We are all Fódlan now. This is a good first step."

Seteth nodded with him. “Indeed. I do believe that His Grace has come to a wise conclusion. If all four of our factions come together, we will…” Seteth began detailing detail-y details. It was hard to focus on him. Partially because Claude’s time as a student at Garreg Mach left him with a pathological urge to ignore Seteth when he got boring. But also… 

_Two hours._ It had to be soon. Two hours. They put together more useful politics in _two hours_ than Claude could do through the Round Table in _two months._ Almost. It wasn’t _quite_ two hours yet. But almost. Almost there. He could feel it. 

Their progress was interrupted by Marianne’s knock on the door. Claude made his excuse, promising to be back soon. It was almost nostalgic as he and Lorenz played their old game of giving Claude a believable excuse to leave the meeting briefly. 

As soon as the door shut behind him, he whirled on Marianne. His eyes darted over her. _Her hands_ specifically, which were empty. Over the past couple of minutes he’d been getting restless and twitchy, and it was only getting worse. But he knew the cure. He knew what he needed.

“Where is it?” he hissed under his breath.

Marianne led him to Hanneman’s old office, which was Linhardt’s current (empty) office. She closed the doors behind them. “I thought privacy would be best, in case we have a repeat of this morning.”

He tapped his foot impatiently. He needed to get back to the cardinals room (needed to eat, needed to eat _right now)._ “It won’t happen again. Just hand it over already and stop wasting my time.”

Marianne regarded him with piercing eyes. Still, she nodded, pulling out a jar of nutrient-added cream. He licked his lips, already reaching for the jar. Marianne put the jar behind her back. “Claude, remember this morning?”

“Yes, sure, whatever. Just hand it over.” He circled her, growing frustrated as she turned with him, keeping the bottle out of his reach. “It’s been two hours, give it to me already.”

“Perhaps you should allow me to administer this.”

“I can manage to drink from a bottle. Give it to me!”

Her eyes narrowed, head tilting. Something in her posture changed, but Claude was too busy to focus on _what_ exactly changed. “Claude, you look ready to attack me.”

He froze, eyes widening. Her words snapped him out of… whatever was going on with him. He took a step back, his hand spread in front of him. “Marianne, I would never!” He swallowed roughly. He wouldn’t have attacked her, no… but he might have tackled her. He turned his head, but his eyes remained glued to where he _knew_ Marianne was hiding the bottle of _food, he needed food, he—_

He clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head. _Damn._ He was supposed to be able to think past this now. His stomach didn’t even hurt, he wasn’t even hungry. He just _needed—_

He slumped into a chair. “My apologies, Marianne. This is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

She stepped closer to him. He noticed the _opportunity,_ pouncing before conscious thought could catch up. He snatched the bottle roughly from her hands, retreating before she could retaliate. He turned his back on her, placing himself between her and _his food,_ and desperately yanked at the lid. 

He couldn’t get the lid off. He yanked, he twisted, he even gnawed at the _damned stubborn_ lid, but it wouldn't come off. He dropped it in one of his failed attempts to pry it open, falling to his knees to chase the rolling jar.

On the floor he struggled and failed to open it. There was a hand on his shoulder. He clutched the jar to his chest protectively, hunching over and glaring at the offending hand.

Marianne looked down at him, pity in her eyes.

He snapped back to his senses with the force of a snapped bowstring. “I—” He hadn’t meant to do _any_ of that. “I—” 

“Would you like some help?” She could have sounded smug, or snarky, or judgemental. But Marianne was none of those things. Instead, she only sounded sad.

Shame filled him. He planned to hand the bottle back to her, but instead his fingers only curled tighter across the bottle. “What’s _wrong_ with me?”

“You’re still recovering.”

“I’m fine right now!” He didn’t shout, but he was frustrated. “Damned hell! Why won’t this bottle _open?!”_ He was back to mindlessly tugging at the bottle.

“There’s a trick to it. Here, allow me—”

He jerked away from her extended hand, once again protecting the bottle with his body. He groaned. He _needed_ to get back to the cardinal room. He _needed to eat, now, now,_ **_now._ **

One hand still clenched around the bottle, he used his free hand to yank out his dragonstone. “Tuck this back into my shirt when you’re done. And — don’t tell anyone.” He pressed it to his bare cheek. He needed skin contact with it, so his gloves wouldn’t work. But if he left it under his shirt, against his chest, Begalta wasn’t here to stop him from pulling at it and overpowering Marianne as she fed him. Which was unfortunately something he might be willing to do in his state.

The dragonstone glimmered silver as the warmth in his blood drained into it. He groaned, collapsing as he no longer had the strength to remain sitting up. The bottle slipped from his limp hand, rolling away. He cursed bitterly, weakly trying to chase the bottle with his hand to no success. His hunger slammed back into him, right along with the thousand of little hurts he always felt.

Marianne gently propped him up. He continued to quietly curse under his breath, his eyes fixed on the bottle now out of reach. The bottle went out of his line of sight as Marianne turned around. There was a soft _pop_ as she opened the bottle effortlessly. She fed him with a practiced hand, not allowing him to shift his head even as he tried to drink faster.

After she finished he grumbled under his breath, hissing about the pain and the hunger and the usual. Marianne let him spin his wheels for a minute or so before tucking his dragonstone back into his shirt, just as he asked. He immediately pulled at the heat as soon as it touched his skin, heaving in a great breath as he sat up under his own power.

He clutched his head. “We’re going to have to do this again in two hours.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’ll get through this.”

_He_ didn’t think it was okay. He was mortified by his behavior. He was on a time limit though, and being mortified took away from his precious little time. He picked himself up off the floor, readjusting everything to make sure he looked presentable. “Thank you. For… everything. And for not allowing me to choke on milk and get it all over my clothes.” He spared her a grin, though it was much weaker than his usual one. “That would be pretty hard to explain away.”

Marianne smiled back at him, pulling him into a hug. “We’ll get you through this.” It was embarrassing how he instinctively melted into the hug, but what was a little extra embarrassment on top of what he already felt?

And maybe he really, really wanted that hug in the moment.

He pulled away, patting his cheeks. He grinned his usual charming smile, winking. “Well? Do I look the part?”

She nodded, reaching up to smooth back a few strands of loose hair. “The perfect picture of a saint.”

He threw back his head and groaned. “Not you too! I’m being betrayed!” 

They parted ways, and he returned to the cardinal's room. The politics began anew at his return. He waved aside the hidden concern shown by Lorenz, Judith, Seteth, and Teach. Considering he should have been gone for a _minute,_ maybe less, he didn’t blame their worry at his longer break. After all, he should be able to drink a glass of liquid and be done with it.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that.

His body was like a clock now. By an hour and a half, he could feel anticipation and excitement rise inside of him. At the two hour mark the excitement crested, leaving him humming internally as his body awaited _food._ Any time after that two hour mark left him with rising anxiety. The longer past two hours he went without eating, the further he drifted towards becoming a complete wreck. Thankfully, the worst it got was only by five minutes. He kept it all internal. Lorenz or Teach would have said something to get him away if it was noticeable, so it couldn’t have been noticeable.

It was good fortune that Claude had a known reputation for being a busybody. As far as his eye could tell, none of the others in the room not-in-the-know so much as batted an eye when he left every two hours. Not when Hilda stormed into the room and demanded he review something, because it would only take _a minute, five tops! We need your opinion, leader-man._ Not when the assembly broke for lunch, which Claude conveniently used as a half-hour break to go do other things (and stay _away_ from tempting solid food). Not when Lysithea burst into the room, jabbering magical jargon about needing to borrow him for a crest experiment.

Each time he was dropped off in Marianne’s empty infirmary. Each time Marianne gave an excuse that was natural and the others left. Each time he stored his energy in his dragonstone before Marianne even brought out the food, allowing her to feed him and repeat the cycle.

(Each time he had the strangest urge to hug them.)

“And that’s a wrap,” Claude declared. “It’s rather late. Are we all satisfied with this?”

Count Hevring opened his mouth, but _thank the Stars_ Ferdinand beat him to the punch. “Adrestria finds these terms amicable and fair.”

“Faerghus finds these terms amicable and fair,” Sylvain parroted. 

“Leicester finds these terms amicable and fair,” Lorenz finished.

“Splendid. Meeting adjourned, you are all dismissed.”

Of course, the ‘agreed’ upon terms were temporary measures. They were what needed to be taken care of _now,_ with little regard for long-term. Anything beyond that would come after Shambhala was taken care of. But at least now he had these nobles out of his hair for the rest of the month. Unfortunately, it was late now, most of his day taken up. 

His knee bounced under the table. _One hour, fifty minutes._ Roughly, give or take a minute. He turned to his council. “That went well.”

“Indeed,” Lorenz murmured. He never thought he’d think it, but Lorenz was a _blessing._ He had his fingers on the pulse of politics in a way Claude physically couldn’t. He was pleased to find they made an excellent team together (despite the odd undercurrent of dread he felt whenever he looked at Lorenz). “I must admit, I was concerned you would be too uninformed on the details of the situation to properly negotiate, but perhaps I should stop underestimating you.”

“You all hear that? Lorenz just paid _me_ a complement!”

Judith patted his shoulder. A few months ago, she would have slapped his back, but now she didn’t use enough force to so much as hurt a fly. “You did well, boy. Couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

“I didn’t do this alone.”

He was interrupted by Teach. Specifically, their stomach growled. He felt a twinge of sympathetic pain in his stomach, though he wasn’t hungry (despite the way he jittered with excitement at the prospect of eating again).

All eyes shifted to him. “And how are you holding up?” Seteth asked, eyeing him critically. 

Claude raised his hands, palm up. “Just fine. I promise I’m not overdoing it.”

“You took longer than expected during your ‘breaks’ today,” Lorenz commented.

“It’s nothing so big, don’t worry. I ate every time — ask Marianne if you’re worried.” His leg continued to bounce. “Speaking of that, it’s dinner. You’re all dismissed.”

They all filtered out aside from Lorenz. “If you have a moment—”

“I do need to speak with you,” Claude began before Lorenz could, “but that will have to wait until after dinner.”

Lorenz nodded. “Of course. Allow me to escort you.”

Claude rolled his eyes but allowed it. Something inside of him prickled at the notion of being alone with Lorenz, oddly enough. Unfortunately, as he entered Marianne’s infirmary, Lorenz did as well.

_“After_ dinner, Lorenz. Not now.” He turned to greet Marianne.

Marianne wasn’t in the infirmary. In fact, the infirmary was empty. He hid a bolt of panic. _If Marianne was gone, who would give him his food?_ As soon as the thought hit him, he felt shame. He was much more concerned about Marianne’s wellbeing than merely what she could give him.

His eye caught on a note propped on her desk.

_‘Called away to help Linhardt & Lysithea with patient X. I have a spare in my room, second drawer. If I’m not back, please bring company with you.’ _

_-Marianne._

Despite the lack of details, he knew the note was for him. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be concerned about the poor sod that was recovering from being a demonic beast. Patient X, they were calling him. He hadn’t recovered the ability to speak coherently yet. But he really, _really_ couldn't care less at the moment. He left the note on the table and headed to Marianne’s room.

“Claude? What are you—?”

He was already leaving, speed walking towards the dorms.

“Claude!” Lorenz caught up to him, unfortunately. “What is this about?”

“Take a guess,” he hissed under his breath. It was a fight not to sprint to Marianne’s room. “You don’t need to accompany me.” No doubt Lorenz was looking at him with suspicion, but his attention was focused elsewhere.

Unfortunately, Lorenz followed him. Lorenz quietly shut Marianne’s door behind him as he rummaged through her drawers. His eyes lit up as he found a single bottle of beef broth. 

And then, as he struggled, he remembered that he still didn’t know how to open the _stupid_ cap.

“So this is why you took so long…”

“Shut up,” Claude hissed, desperation leaking into him. “These _damned_ lids!”

Lorenz cleared his throat. “Would you… ah… like some help?”

“No!” He considered bashing the glass jar open. Unfortunately, that would spill the precious liquid everywhere. 

“You are being ridiculous. It’s a simple mechanism, allow me to h—”

“Don’t touch me.” He pressed his back to the wall, his eyes darting between Lorenz and the jar. His body was a war between _Danger!_ and _Food!_ as both fought for his limited attention. “Dammit! Go away, I just— come _on!”_ He chomped down on the lid, growling at it.

“You still need to be fed, then,” Lorenz murmured.

Claude hated this. “Shut _up!_ I can _do it!”_ He slammed the lid against the desk. He needed to break the cap. He could do that without shattering the glass. After an unbearable period of time (half a minute), the lid shattered. He wasted no time chugging the bottle.

He ran into the same problem from his morning mishap.

He sputtered, broth spilling everywhere as he choked. A hand curled over his own. Combined with his coughing, an unexpected touch, and something touching _his food,_ Claude reacted in the only logical way he could: by lashing out. His attacker grunted as his elbow jabbed hard into ribs. The hand let go of him and his food. Claude returned to attempting to eat as fast as humanly possible (and mostly failing).

“Damn, damn, damn…” The bottle was empty already. He lapped at his gloves, trying to lick away the broth dripping down his face.

His chest heaved. He blinked, suddenly all too aware. He was on his knees, licking his damp sleeve. And Lorenz witnessed his entire episode. He took a few calming breaths, doing his best to ignore how his stomach wasn’t full. His back was to Lorenz. He wondered what Lorenz thought of him now. He didn’t even have his usual excuse this time.

A folded handkerchief was placed by his side, just barely in his line of sight. Lorenz was silent.

Claude peeled off his wet gloves, accepting the handkerchief to wipe his face. The handkerchief came back bloody. He dabbed at his stinging lip. He cut himself on the shattered lip of the jar.

“Well? Let’s hear it.”

Lorenz remained silent.

“Go ahead. I doubt you can say anything I haven’t already told myself.”

“Are you alright?”

He didn’t expect that. “Do I _look_ alright to you?” He wasn’t tired, but he wanted to sink into his bed and never see the light of day again.

“How can I help? Aside from giving you more food…”

Claude barked a laugh. “That’s the real kicker, you know. I’m not even hungry and I still have no control over myself.” He turned, finally facing Lorenz. The noble’s face was pale, pinched with worry. “It sure is a good thing I’m helpless when I’m actually hungry.”

“I apologize, Claude. I should have afforded you the dignity of privacy.”

“Dignity isn’t something I have high supplies of anymore, so what does it even matter.” He felt another stab of frustration as he realized a good half of the makeup on his face was smeared across Lorenz’s handkerchief now. At least it was late. He would probably be strong-armed back into bed by his friends soon anyways. “You must want to replace me as a leader, huh. What with this lack of control.”

Lorenz didn’t meet his eyes. Not that he blamed the other man. How pathetic Claude must look… “You are clearly still competent enough to lead. Today’s results erased my doubts. You did good. Better than good.”

He sighed. “Now you’re complimenting me out of pity.”

“I would not do that. You know me better than that.”

_‘Do I?’_ he wanted to say. He didn’t know what to expect from Lorenz anymore. “You’re doing my job anyways. It must be grating to watch me steal all the credit of all your hard work.”

“I _maintain_ your position. Your unique brand of creative thinking is something I can never replicate, and I’ve sorely found how vital such a head is for the space you have carved for yourself.” It was Lorenz’s turn to sigh. He didn’t know what the noble’s expression was, as he was still too busy staring at the floor. “I’ve made peace with my place. If Lorenz Hellman Gloucester is to go down in history as a footnote, so be it. In a way, I am able to achieve more through your name than I ever could my own. If my pride must suffer for all of Fódlan, it is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”

“Wow. Where was I during this character development? Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical.”

“Cease this moping. It is unbecoming of you.”

“Yep, there’s the Lorenz I know.”

He flinched as a hand touched his shoulder. “I do not mean that as an insult,” Lorenz murmured. 

The shame and humiliation of the entire day (the entire month, the entire five years) caught up with him. Collapsed on the floor covered in beef broth with a bleeding lip, he couldn’t push it aside anymore. “Is this going to be my life now? Is _this_ to be my high point? Unable to open a _jar_ like I’m a starving dog?” He let his head slump forward, hanging in defeat. “I’m not fit to lead, Lorenz. It’s obvious I can’t do this.”

_“Claude von Riegan._ I demand you stop this at once.”

“Yeah. Sorry. This sure is pathetic, huh.”

_“Claude!”_ Lorenz roughly cupped his chin and lifted his head. Lorenz was in front of him, inches from his face. “Are you attempting to _give up?_ After all the effort everyone has put into your recovery?!”

“I’m next to useless as anything beyond a figurehead. I don’t even understand _why_ everyone has been so… indulgent.” His last word came out as a whisper. 

“Supportive. The word you are looking for is _supportive._ It seems we are finally revisiting that argument of ours a month ago. We care about you more than your title.”

“Sure.” Did they _really_ care about him? Or were they just propping him up because they needed him? No, he was trying to run from the truth again. The Deer obviously cared about him. And here he was, a disappointment. 

Lorenz took the damp handkerchief from his hand and dabbed at his lip. He was silent for a bit, allowing Claude to stew. “Do you recall when we were students, shortly after Remire, when Hilda and I brought you dinner after a session of your vomiting?”

“That was a while ago.”

“Yes. It was just after you single-handedly decimated that bandit camp.”

He huffed. “Right, I remember that. You pissed me off so much. Treated me like glass.” He heaved another sigh. “Looks like you were right in the end.”

“None of that now. When we returned to the monastery, you brought everyone together in a celebratory ‘feast’. I thought them silly at the time, but in hindsight they were a masterful way to bring us together.” Lorenz gently rubbed the handkerchief at his cheek, catching broth Claude missed. “Those feasts brought us all together… except you. Because you never stayed for long. I’m ashamed of my old assumptions of malicious intent on your end.”

“Can’t blame you for being suspicious of me.”

“Indeed. On the first night that we were aware of your condition, we all worried. I was not the only one to become uncomfortably aware of how often you left meals early, of how you never returned after. You left as you always did, assuring us it would _‘not be so bad this time’._ Strangely enough, those became the words that often echo in my nightmares. A sort of bell tolling, perhaps. Do you recall what happened later that night?”

“What are you getting at? You and Hilda brought me food.”

“As you left us, you claimed you would return shortly. Ten minutes after your departure, we all grew worried. Another ten and that worry doubled. I did not voice my fear, but in truth I worried that… well. You claimed the bout would not be so bad. I clung to those words. You are quite fortunate that I convinced everyone that eight of us crowding your room would do you no good. Even Linhardt volunteered! So Hilda and I went to check on you. I confess, my courage nearly left me upon approaching your door. Perhaps it was the remaining horrors of Remire that left me so shaken. Again clinging to your claims that your vomiting sessions were ‘normal’ and ‘no big deal’, I gathered my courage.” Lorenz moved away from his face down to tend to his damp hands.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to cheer me up or if you’re about to insult me.”

“Were you aware that we knocked and called for you three times before you responded? To my relief you were fine. You replied and you opened your door. Do you recall the state you were in?”

“No Lorenz, I _don’t._ Get to the point.”

Lorenz set the soiled handkerchief down, looking him straight in the eyes. “You were ashen and haggard. Dried vomit glimmered on your face, from your lips and below eyes. The cuff of your sleeve was likewise stained. You were still filthy and bloody from the skirmish. To my horror, you were hardly responsive. Your sharp tongue was dull and your quick wit slowed to a near stop. Your eyes focused on nothing, as though you were a ghost drifting through the world. You shook ever so slightly. But you were fine, so I thought, until I witnessed you struggling to bring a teacup to your lips. I steadied your hands with my own and helped you drink, and I don’t believe you noticed.”

“I’ve been shit for years, I know.” He thought back to the event, minutely shaking his head. “I remember feeling like a mouldy piece of bread, but that was regular back then. Hilda changed my sheets for me, I think. She left me a note.”

Lorenz nodded. “Correct. Hilda and I stayed with you as you ate. We had to prompt you to keep eating, lest you stare off into nothing. The longer I sat in your room, the more I saw. Half-cleaned silver stains everywhere. Handprints. And then I saw your half-filled bucket of vomit. _Half-filled._ I was horrified. I wanted to accuse you of lying, of playing down your illness. But I didn’t, because I realized you did not lie that day. _‘Not so bad this time.’_ That was correct, compared to Remire. I realized that your pathetic state was a _good day_ for your illness, and that… scared me. Truthfully. I did not know what to do. So I hauled you off to the bathhouse. Do you recall that?”

“Vaguely.”

“You fell asleep and nearly drowned yourself.”

“I don’t remember _that.”_

Lorenz finally looked away. “It was hard to watch you so weak back then. I can’t say it ever got easier. I desired to deny it. Yet what was I to do? So I scrubbed the blood and silver from your skin and hair as you slept. You woke as I finished, hardly aware at all. I hauled you back to your room and tucked you under your covers. I waited for you to fall asleep, which did not take long at all. Do you recall what you said?”

“I don’t recall you being in my room at all after we left for the bathhouse.”

“I’m unsurprised. As I said, you were out of it. You stared at the ceiling for a short time. Then you said _‘Maybe they aren’t lying when they say they care,’_ in the most disbelieving voice I have ever heard. Then you slept. In the morning you said nothing and went about your day like nothing changed. Because for _you,_ nothing changed.”

He huffed a parody of a laugh. “And then it only went downhill from there.” His condition had been out of control during school, but how was he supposed to mitigate it? Back then he’d been alone: no trusted classmates, no Begalta, no clue what was even wrong with him.

“And then you save my life.”

“You still have the scar from that?” He perfectly remembered that silver gash across his abdomen. 

“Obviously. I knew I was a dead man when the axe struck. It hurt so much. When Lysithea said she couldn’t save me, I’d never been so afraid. I tried to be noble about my death, but I couldn’t. There was nothing noble about my organs spilling out of me. But you refused. Frantic and determined, you saved my life. It was then that I realized nothing could stop you.” Lorenz carefully gripped his shoulder. “Your illness took so much, yet you have always been so strong. You refuse to stop. You tell death _no,_ and death listens to you. Time and time again.”

“Until the consequences caught up with me,” he muttered back.

“Your heart stopped, and you said _no._ You became weak with starvation, and you continue to say _no._ You do the impossible, again and again and _again._ Don’t you see? All of us Golden Deer would have died without you. For each of us you told death _no._ For all the time I have known you, you have been untouchable. You are not harmed by words, nor steel, nor death.”

“Hah. You call _this_ untouchable? I can barely function.”

“Yet you live, and are recovering.”

“And if I don’t recover? If this loss of my mental capabilities every two hours when I see food is permanent? What then?”

“Then you will find a way around it. You always do.”

Where the hell was Lorenz’s confidence in him coming from? “I don’t understand you. You don’t even like me!”

“I _disagree_ with some things you say. That doesn’t mean I dislike you. That shouldn’t need to be stated. Ahem, that isn’t to say you don’t often get on my nerves.”

“I’m not invincible. I’ve been surviving by the skin of my teeth. Hell, I’ve been surviving off of charity.If I had the ability, I _would_ have ended my suffering, Lorenz. I would’ve taken _any_ escape.” He hung his head. “It was easier when I knew the pain was almost over. I don’t want to die, but I’m so _spent._ I had the chance to finally rest and die, and I spurned it. I don’t regret that right now, _I don’t,_ but I don’t know how I can keep this up.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Pretty sure I begged for it to end more than once this past month. But I guess you’re not fully wrong. I wouldn’t have freaked out on you the other day if I was still welcoming death. What did you even _do_ to threaten me? All I remember is that you were about to kill me.”

Lorenz flinched back. “I would never! You don’t _truly_ think I could harm you…?”

“I did. Whatever you said fully convinced me that you were in my room to kill me.”

“I… what nonsense. I would never hurt you! I doubt I _could_ even if I wanted to.”

He frowned. “Lorenz, I’m a helpless glass doll one shove from shattering completely. I can’t _stand_ being helpless.” He laughed. “Now that I think about it, it’s a miracle I haven’t had a meltdown like that before. Dammit.” This was all too much out of his control. 

Lorenz was silent for a few moments, staring at him far too intently. “I see. You always have needed to control the situation. Always have a backup for your backup. Escape routes. But now you can’t…”

“And apparently I’m more transparent than ever.” He pulled away and stood, though he couldn’t bring his shoulders from their slump. “I better get to bed before I mess something else up. Marianne will be disappointed if I don’t.” ~~And he _really_ wanted a hug right now. ~~

Lorenz huffed but stood with him. “Have you heard nothing I said? You _still_ mope!”

“Oh, and you _wouldn’t_ in my shoes?” he snapped back. “I can’t control myself! I mindlessly beg and cry and” — demand hugs and affection — “and how _any_ of you still have a shred of respect for me I can’t understand! You call me invulnerable — which I disagree with — but even if I _was,_ what good is an invulnerability that turns me into _this?”_ He wasn’t even referring to his physical condition. 

He startled as Lorenz snatched his chin. “Claude. You perform _miracles_ every other day! You _should_ be dead. Even you cannot return from such unscathed. You are _recovering,_ yet you afford yourself no excuse. Expecting yourself to return to your prime in an instant is unrealistic. In words once spoken to me by a bumbling fool of a man who has earned my respect tenfold: loosen up, relax, and stop twisting yourself into pieces.” Lorenz’s hand lowered to clutch his shoulder. “You are pushing yourself too hard and expecting too much, my friend.”

“Having agency over my own actions, emotions, and words is ‘too much’ to ask for?”

Lorenz scoffed. “You sound quiet in control of your insistence to mope.”

“I’ve never trusted anyone before,” he quietly admitted. “Not fully. If I can’t protect myself, I’ll die. Simple as that. Always has been. But now that I can think clearly, I see that somehow while I wasn’t looking I’ve come to trust people? That I feel _safe_ around them despite being helpless?” He heaved a small laugh. “You have no idea how insane that sounds to me. I _should_ be waiting for the other boot to drop, I _should_ be planning for inevitable betrayals. But I can't seem to. I don’t know what to _do.”_

“I see. And I somehow made you feel unsafe the other night, is that right?” Claude nodded. “I’m sorry. For your sake, I’m grateful that the others make you feel safe. You are under enough stress as it is.”

_“Why_ are you trying to cheer me up? I don’t get you! Is this some sort of payment for me saving your life?”

Lorenz’s flat look conveyed how wrong that answer was. “You’re smarter than this. I see my words are not enough to sway you.” Lorenz extended his arms.

He raised an eyebrow. 

_“Ahem._ I am offering you a hug, Claude.”

His other eyebrow joined the first as they both nearly flew off his head. “Aren’t hugs too improper for you?”

“It was the cuddling that I cited as being improper, a man between two ladies no less. However, Leonie has… _‘beaten’_ it into me that a lady’s choice is her own, and not to be shamed. Now, are you accepting this hug or not?”

He fidgeted as he mulled it over. His eyes darted from the outstretched arms to the unwavering purple eyes to the worried slant to his mouth. He took a tiny step forward. _If Lorenz wanted to kill him, he could have done it while he was helpless._ He took another tiny step forward.

Lorenz wrapped his arms around him. Slowly the tension in his shoulders released. He rested his chin on Lorenz’s shoulder and felt his body and heart melt. He wanted to curse himself again: he was helpless to these new urges. But it was hard to be upset at himself in the face of the fact that Lorenz didn’t hate him and didn’t want him dead.

“I used to hate it when you and Hilda held me up when I vomited,” he admitted. “I hated being seen so weak, but you two always insisted.”

“I recall. The past five years before the professor returned were a challenge in so many ways. What was it Hilda called you? A pregnant cat always seeking out the perfect hiding spot to give birth.” He snorted at the grimace on Lorenz’s face. _A cat looking for a remote place to be sick and die_ was more accurate. “Despite your discomfort, I’m grateful you let us in as much as you did. Walking in on you choking to death once was more than enough for me.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he muttered. He’d been choking on vomit, yes, but not to _death._ Doubtless it hadn’t been fun to watch though.

“It was and you know it. I just ask that you continue to let me help you.”

He nodded, wishing he had an excuse for why he clutched Lorenz tighter. “I suppose I’ll try my best.”

Lorenz walked him back to his room. The dread in his chest was gone. That was good. He wanted another hug from Lorenz. That was less good.

Entering his room, Lorenz hesitated. “I believe Ignatz should be free soon. I can fetch him, if you would like.”

_He did want that._ He’d like to hug Ignatz. But that would mean Lorenz would leave him alone, and he didn’t want that.

“I will stay, then. So long as you are comfortable with my presence.”

“I said that out loud, didn’t I.” _Dammit._

Lorenz raised an eyebrow. “Did you not intend to?”

He sat on his bed and began pulling off his boots. It gave him an excuse not to look at or answer Lorenz. “I keep saying things I don’t mean to.” _Dammit!_ Lorenz settled on the bed beside him and he leaned against the noble. “Congratulations: you’re subconsciously back in my good books.”

“I suppose this has only added to your recent distress.”

“I accidently told Marianne I love her earlier.”

“…Ah.” 

“Turns out I’m pathologically truthful around the Deer now! That’s not even including my urge to hug everyone. Just listen to me; I wouldn’t be saying any of this in my right mind. I just keep _talking_ like I’ve got no filter. I can’t seem to stop myself, and that’s even in the rare instance that I notice myself doing it.”

“Ahem… are you aware you are currently ‘doing it’?”

He hung his head in his hands. “Yes. Can you just, like… hug me and pretend this isn’t happening? I’d ask you to leave but I want that even less, even if it means accidentally spilling my deepest secrets. _Dammit_ I hope I haven’t done that yet.”

“I believe I see why the others have taken to indulging you.” Lorenz cleared his throat. “Allow me to help you get ready for bed.”

Claude managed to keep his babbling to a minimum (as far as he could tell). Resting Begalta back over his chest was a good feeling. He mentally pleaded for her help in regulating himself and (really, he should have expected this) received dopey happiness in return. Which only exacerbated his symptoms.

He crawled into bed. Dread filled him, as he needed to store his energy in his dragonstone now. He knew it, but he _really_ didn’t want to. If he didn’t do it soon, Begalta would force him anyways. It was easy, he could do it. He’d done it plenty of times today (with the knowledge that it was only for a few minutes, that Marianne had him, that he would be fed).

“Can you hold my hand?” he blurted. “Or my shoulder, or — something? You don’t need to hold me like the others do, it’s okay — even though that’d be really nice and I want to be held right now because I’m afraid — I don’t want you holding me if you don’t want to. It’s just — it’s going to _hurt_ and I don’t want to go back to being defenseless and in pain, but I don’t have a choice. And if I’m babbling a lot _now,_ it’s only going to get worse. _Dammit_ I hate this so much.”

Lorenz smoothed a hand over his forehead. “I understand now. Give me a moment and I will lay with you.” He began dressing down.

“Really? You’re sure?” He hated how eager he sounded. “I hate this. I’m so _touchy_ now.”

“Hm, it seems to me that you don’t hate being ‘touchy’ as you put it.” Lorenz again brushed a hand over his forehead, and he was helpless to lean into the touch. “I suppose it’s the lack of control again that bothers you.”

“Yeah. At least it’s only around you guys. I trust you guys.”

He wished Lorenz took longer, but before he knew it Lorenz was pulling back the blankets to settle somewhat awkwardly around Claude. It was (as the theme for the day) humiliating how eagerly he pressed up against the other man. “How should I…?”

“Just like a hug. Or whatever you feel comfortable with,” Claude murmured into his hair. Lorenz’s arms encircled him and a feeling of peace and safety washed over him. He wished he could lay exactly as he was forever. But Begalta pulsed on his chest in reminder. “If I ask for something embarrassing or ridiculous, you can tell me no.” He was stalling and Begalta knew it.

His body’s warmth drained into the dragonstone. He heaved a groan, squirming as the pain returned. Then he was too tired and weak to squirm, so he just groaned. 

“I have you Claude, nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.”

“Promise?” he croaked.

“Indeed. I promise. How do you feel?”

He keened. “It hurts and I hate this and I’m tired and cold and so hungry, make it stop Lorenz, please…” The world spun around him as it all caught up with him. “Make it stop…”

“I’m so sorry Claude, I don’t…”

His bones and joints were on fire (without the warmth). He’d hurt with Marianne too, but he had the comfort of an approaching escape for his pain then. “Please make it stop…” 

A hand gently brushed through his hair and his begging halted with a sigh. “This is what the others do, yes? Does it help?”

He wheezed. “Uh-huh. D…distract me ‘ntil I fall asleep… please…”

“I can do that. Do you have any preference? I could give you my thoughts on today’s council.”

“Won’t… retain any in…formation…”

“A story then? If you like, I can make it boring to lull you to sleep faster.”

He wheezed something resembling a laugh. “‘S that a joke… from _the_ Lorenz Hellm…” He trailed off.

“…Are you asleep?” Lorenz whispered.

“No.”

“Ah. Apologies. Let’s see, a boring story…”

“D-doesn’t gotta be boring… just want to hear your voice…”

“I… see. More truthfulness from you.”

“Like your voice… when you’re not angry at me. It’s nice. _You’re_ nice. Thanks for not hating me…”

_“Ah._ This is, what did Hilda call it? Your ‘sweetheart’ voice.”

“Nmm… Hilda’s sweet…” Lorenz continued to pet his hair. “Th…thanks for… not wanting me to die…”

He couldn’t say if he babbled anything else before he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Child-proof lids, invented just for Claude
> 
> Chapter 9 is heavily referenced in this chapter (I'm aware it's been a while, so if something doesn't make sense, rereading that chapter might help. However, the chapter is written that it should be understandable even without context) Chapter 10 and 11 are slightly referenced as well


	34. Secure Starlight

_Every twitch is agony. They strung him up, left him hanging from spikes of sharp metal. They kept him alive, just barely._

**_Why won’t they kill me?_ **

_He doesn’t see the man with the whip-sword again. Instead he is visited by a man with green eyes and a fake smile. The green-eyed man coos at him, running a dagger down his scales. The man licks the drops of the blood and smiles, smiles, smiles. The man loves to laugh, loves to tell cruel jokes under deceptively cheerful mirth._

_Those eyes. Those eyes. He hates those green eyes. They terrify him._

_He doesn’t know how often the green-eyed man visits. Each visit the man makes bigger cuts, longer slashes. At first the man drank small drops, but as the visits continue the man drinks more and more._

_The man presents him with a cup, flourishing it like a gift. The cup gleams with gold and emerald. The man pours his blood and drinks like a king._

_Eventually the man grows tired of moderation. The last time he sees the man, the man drinks his fill. The man drinks and drinks and drinks until the man’s stomach can hold no more._

_Then masked creatures replace the green-eyed man. They are far worse. They rip tendons, rip bone, rip—_

  
  
  


He woke with a choked gasp. The dream — the memory — rang sharply through his mind, echoing. He couldn’t remember what happened when the masked men came to him. The dream always stopped there.

A warm hand was running through his hair, a voice humming a familiar song. He leaned into the touch, as much as he was able, trying to calm his racing heart and even out his breathing. There were no chains or spikes or daggers; only soft blankets and a soft bed.

“A nightmare?”

_No, it happened, it was real, it was a memory —_ “Yeah.” He drank in the feeling of touch, trying to ground his foggy thoughts. “Thanks for being here, brother.”

The hand in his hair came to an abrupt stop.

Claude peeled his eyes back open and looked at Cichol. He blinked, frowning. Something felt off. The hair seemed wrong. He expected it to look different.

“… Begalta?”

Claude frowned. His attention caught the name like it was his own, but that wasn’t right. His name was Claude, not…

He groaned. _Dammit, he did it again._ “Sorry Seteth. It just slipped out.”

Hesitantly, Seteth returned to card through his hair. “Did you have another dream of hers?”

At this point _all_ of his dreams were from her, but he kept that close to his chest. “Yeah. Same one.” Ever since meeting with Rhea, he kept having the same nightmare. 

Begalta’s memories were so _real,_ like they were his own. Sometimes he woke up disoriented, forgetting who he was exactly. It wasn’t that Claude thought he was Begalta — he was still himself. It was just… sometimes he forgot that _Begalta_ wasn’t Claude. This was the second time he verbally slipped up by calling Seteth _‘brother’._ There were numerous times where he mentally referred to the man as his brother or as Cichol. At least when he was more awake he could catch himself before he said it out loud.

He shuddered, echoes of the dream still twisting behind his eyes. Small mercies he always woke up before things got really bad. Next time he went to Derdriu, he was getting rid of the portrait of the Elite Riegan. Beyond the fact that the man didn’t deserve to be recognized, Claude wasn’t sure he could stomach looking at it. He was certain he’d seen that cup before too, stored in the Riegan vault. He was going to melt it down next chance he got.

At least his eyes glowed. If they didn’t, he wasn’t sure how he’d look at himself in the mirror. Sunken cheeks and a hollow face already made that hard enough without seeing that same shade of green in himself.

The nightmares were beginning to wane, at least. He took that as a good sign. He tried to be extra cheerful for Begalta when he could, but stuck in his sickbed on the verge of death didn’t make it easy.

“You should take her out,” Claude found himself saying. He glanced out his window. “Looks like a perfect night for stargazing.” He had been trying to get Seteth to spend time with Begalta for a while. He managed to get Teach to take her on a few more forest strolls and even got Flayn to spend a little time with her. He knew Seteth wanted to reconnect but the man was reluctant. Afraid, he guessed.

“I’m not sure if that is a wise idea to separate the two of you currently.”

“It’s fine. I’m stable. Haven’t needed Begalta to keep me alive since my recovery started.”

Seteth’s hand ghosted over Begalta’s creststone. “Does she want to go out?”

It was hard to gauge Begalta’s emotional state after a nightmare. He felt uneasy and restless, but that could easily be his own emotions and not hers. He imagined a night out stargazing. His heart filled with a low and sad longing. _He_ wanted to go stargazing himself, but the bittersweet nostalgia was a clear tell that it was her emotions that he was feeling. “She does.”

“Very well then. I suppose I can spare a few hours…”

Seteth gently held Begalta, slowly rubbing his thumb up and down the remainder of her bone. “Try not to be too much of a spoilsport,” Claude added, “she could use some cheering up.”

Seteth left, leaving him with his own thoughts. It was a rare instance of being alone for him. Before, he would have bristled at his current lack of privacy and alone time. Now he ached at being alone. It was _only_ because of his helplessness. He was uncomfortable with how unable he was to defend himself. When he regained his strength, his pathetic neediness would fade. It _had_ to.

He wiggled a bit, struggling to prop himself up on his pillows. His strength was returning at (according to Marianne) a miraculous and possibly worrisome rate, and (according to him) not nearly quick enough. He wasn’t as patient as he used to be. Breathless and struggling to push himself upright inch by ambitious inch, his lungs already heaving and body protesting, he found nothing ‘miraculous’ about it.

_It was a good day,_ he reminded himself as he panted with his head against the backboard, half-way propped up. Strikes of thunder and cold fire zipped through his bones. The pain wasn’t _debilitating_ though. So it was a good day.

He cursed his short-sighted thinking. His miniscule journey wiped him out. He propped himself up so he _wouldn’t_ fall back asleep, but the fatigue threatened to do just that. Worse, he didn’t have the strength to pull his blankets up with him, so his shoulders and upper chest were covered in nothing but his thin sleep-shirt.

His current state meant he _could_ sleep without Begalta’s influence, unlike before. No more manic nights of restless energy pushing him to stay awake for weeks on end. It felt wrong to sleep without her, though. Like trying to sleep standing up. Technically possible, but not comfortable or _right._

He slumped his head to face the window. It wasn’t a great view. Cichol hadn’t wanted — _dammit._ _Seteth_ hadn’t wanted anyone to be able to peek at Flayn through the window. It worked well for Claude, but it made his view nothing but a slim peek at the stars. At least he had Ignatz’s painting. Just looking at it made him feel a little better, if only his spirits. 

All of them gathered around a campfire, eyes cast above at a rendition of the night sky. It couldn’t beat the real deal, but he noted that Ignatz added specific constellations. The Council of Twelve, the Silent star, the Guiding King star. It was a snapshot back to the first night everyone returned to Garreg Mach after five long years. _“You asked me to paint your home,”_ Ignatz had told him after presenting the piece. _“I know you don’t find it easy to open up. I might not know where you grew up, but… I hope you know you will always have a home with all of us.”_

Claude was in the center, lit up in a genuine smile that wasn’t the kind he perfected in the mirror, gesturing to the stars. Hilda bracketed his right, Raphael his left, Teach standing behind him. He was wrapped in Leonie’s jacket and Ignatz’s cloak. The rest of the Deer were lively and cheerful, following his outstretched hand to look at the star he pointed to.

_Home._ It might not be the home of his birth, but it was a place he belonged. A place he was safe. A place he was _loved._

“Hmph. Thought you would be back to sleep by now.”

A sigh eased out of him, releasing a tension he hadn’t noticed until it vanished. Lysithea padded over to the chair beside his bed, book clutched to her chest. “More late night research?”

“Indeed.” She looked tired and annoyed as she fumbled to light a candle. “Seteth said you were awake and that he was going out. Apparently I’m the only one up at this hour.”

Claude snorted. “And what an ungodly hour it is.”

“It’s not” — she interrupted herself with a yawn — “not that late. _Shut up,_ it’s not!”

He snickered. “That yawn was caused by boredom then?” She didn’t answer, bowling her head down and slumping over his bed. If that wasn’t a clear sign of her exhaustion, the dark bags under her eyes certainly were. “Hey. I’m cold. Can you…?”

“You’ll just whine if I don’t. I was going to _anyway.”_ She paused, squinting at him in the candlelight and shaking her head. “Of course you’re cold, look at you. You’re halfway out of your millions of layers. _Pah,_ you say _I_ push my body too hard. You’re a big hypocrite.”

“And you’re a tiny hypocrite.”

“Hey! I bet I weigh more than you do! You’re the one that hasn’t grown at all in the past five years. Keep antagonizing me and maybe you’ll be cold for the rest of the night.” Given that she was taking off her shawl, her ‘threat’ didn’t even register to him.

“I didn’t say anything about your size. Maybe I meant that your hypocrisy is tiny compared to mine, but if you want to compare height instead…”

She bopped his head (more like patted). “You must not be too cold if you’re quipping coherently.” _Such a low bar._

Involuntarily he groaned. “Can you hurry up? I’m going to freeze to death.”

“And what idiot’s fault is it that you’re out of your blankets?”

“I’m gonna blame Seteth.”

She snorted. It was agonizing to wait for her to finish dressing down. Who cared if she was still wearing her shoes? He just wanted to be warm(er) already.

“Just be patient,” she muttered. He felt a stab of embarrassment as he realized he’d started whining in the back of his throat. She waved her book in front of him before plopping it onto his covers. “I brought one special for you this time, so you better appreciate it.”

Lysithea typically read in bed with him, never one to waste time when she could be multitasking. It was nice in his more lucid periods of being awake as it meant he could read too. Soon he should be strong enough to turn a few pages on his own, but for now the act of trying wore him out. It wasn’t all bad though. Lysithea, Linhardt, and occasionally Marianne liked to read with him. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he was better and no longer had a reason to need the others.

Lysithea finally settled into bed with him, easing him back under the covers. His body leaned into every point of her warm contact, even when it hurt. He hummed his thanks.

She didn’t take the book. Her neck bobbed twice before she gave in to fully laying down. He felt her melt into the pillow beside him, her hair brushing his neck. He tilted his head just enough to knock against her. 

“You know you have the time to take care of yourself now, yeah? The library will still be there even if you sleep.”

“Old habits die hard.” 

“I get it.” He knew Lysithea still hadn’t fully wrapped her head around the fact that she would likely live a long and full life. “What’s got you so worked up? More crest stuff?”

“It’s… related.”

“Does it involve Edelgard?”

She deflated. “Yes. I’ve visited her a few times. Sometimes with Linhardt, sometimes with the professor. Sometimes on my own.”

“How is she?”

“I can’t say for certain. She’s putting up a front, but I can’t tell by how much. She’s defeated, but she isn’t broken.” She fiddled with a lock of his hair. “I agree with her on a great many things. She hasn’t said as such, but I’m certain her second crest was forced on her. I feel kinship, and yet…”

“I don’t get it,” Lysithea choked out. “She still thinks she was in the right! I too wish for a world without crests. We’re so alike, and yet—!”

“It’s okay. I agree with a lot of her tenets too. But not her methods.”

“Yes. Exactly. I just… don’t understand how she can ally with those horrible people and still believe she’s the right side in this conflict. I don’t know how much she knows about them, but she knows enough to know they are evil.”

“Trying to use them. She thought she could beat them after she won.”

“Now she’s dropped that on us. How kind.” She paused, fiddling with his hair as she thought. “Sometimes we talk about mundane things. It’s a waste of time really. But other times she talks about… conspiracies, I suppose. About… about beasts in human guise pulling the strings of the church, controlling all of Fódlan. I’m hesitant to believe her, yet it bears a striking reminder to Tomas and Monica. She claims that Rhea is a beast herself.”

“Different faction,” Claude corrected. “Nabateans aren’t evil. I’m not a fan of Rhea, but she’s on her deathbed anyways. The rest have no interest in ruling anything.”

She sharply inhaled. “You know what she’s talking about?! ‘Nabatean’? Edelgard’s right…?”

_Curse his new inability to lie._ “Don’t mention I told you that. Supposed to be a secret.” He heaved a long sigh. “Don’t know how ‘right’ Edelgard is. Most of the Nabateans are dead.” He groaned as a flash of Begalta’s nightmare echoed through his body. “The Agarthans nearly wiped them out.”

“How do you know all of this? I’ve been tearing through the library without even a hint of success. And you just know already?! You are infuriating, you saint of annoyance! If you already know, then you can confirm or deny a few of Edelgard’s claims. She says these forces use crests to subjugate Fódlan.”

He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut. “Crests ‘re from them, ‘s true. Not… willingly. The crests were… taken…” _The dagger runs down his scales, slicing open skin. Blood runs and runs and runs and—_ “B-bone… and hearts, th-the blood, they…” _Ripping and pulling tendons, bones snapping and reforming and cracking an—_

“Claude? Claude what’s wrong?”

He blinked open his eyes. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. “K-keep having… nightmares of… being reformed. They’re so real. Creststones are _hearts,_ Lys. Their souls a-are trapped. Begalta’s r-remembering her death, and I keep seeing it. Living it. They turned her corpse into a _bow.”_

He felt Lysithea sit up. She gripped his arm under the sheets. “The relics…?”

“Used to be p-people. All of them.”

“They all have souls…?”

“None are awake… but yes.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us this?!”

“Their living relatives asked me to keep it a secret.”

“There are living—?!”

He cut her off with a groan. “‘M guessing Edelgard didn’t mention ‘ny of that, huh. I wonder how much she even knows…” Out of the corner of his eye, Lysithea was staring at him. She wanted to know more. Of course she did, he would too in her place. “D-drinking their blood gives a crest. They were s-slaughtered for power.” _Screams echo through the canyon. His people are dying. His people are being_ slaughtered _and they are all helpless._

“—ude?! Claude?!”

He forced his eyelids open, though his sight wouldn't focus. “Helpless,” he gasped. “We… _they_ were so strong, but they were helpless. The Agarthans got their revenge. They were so strong Lys, what hope do we have? How are we supposed to defeat an enemy older than our written history?”

“You’re not making sense. Hey, calm down! Shh, stop talking, you’re too worked up.”

“People are looking to _me_ to beat them,” he panted, his heart burning. “Dumb luck won’t… be enough. Not against the Agarthans. Not against Shambhala. I’m the _Master Tactician,_ a stupid _saint._ How’m I supposed to do this…?”

“Wait, are you talking about Those who slither in the dark?”

“A-Agarthans, th-they…”

“Shh, shh. We’ll stop them,” Lysithea promised. “You’re not alone in this. We don’t have a choice, they can’t be allowed to win. So we’ll stop them. We’ll stop them, together.”

He tilted a tiny nod. “Yeah. Hah. Yeah. We’ll do it. What’s one more miracle to add to my list anyways?”

She settled back down against him. “You should rest. You can tell me more when you’re rested.”

He grunted, knowing she was right. “You’ll stay, right?” He wouldn’t have a nightmare from Begalta while she was with Seteth, but without her his own mind was free to conjure his worst fears. “I’m cold, please stay, I’m so cold.”

“Obviously.” She yawned. “Yes I'll stay, don’t worry so much. Please don’t worry so much. Just focus on getting better.”

  
  


* * *

He woke from his fitful sleep at the sound of the door. He tilted a half-grin at Seteth. “Have a good time out?”

“Indeed.” Seteth’s smile was not very convincing as he approached the bed. His smile curled into something more genuine, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Forgive me. I did not realize you had company.”

Claude glanced over at Lysithea, still curled up at his side. Her mouth hung open, a small trail of drool down her chin. “Yes, she passed out hard.”

Seteth returned Begalta back to him, stringing her over his neck and tucking her snug under his shirt. She hummed a greeting. Claude frowned, trying to parse the trickle of emotions he felt. Usually he felt refreshed when she came back. But instead he felt… frustrated? He grimaced. Definitely frustrated. Very annoyed. In fact, he really wanted to— 

Claude leveled an unimpressed look at Seteth. “What did you do.”

Seteth tilted his head. “We watched the stars, just as you asked. Is something the matter?”

“I have a very, very strong urge to slap you.” Not that he was physically able.

Seteth’s eyebrows flew to his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to, of course — Begalta, I’m _not,_ stop that — but I’d like to know what you did.” He rolled his eyes at her spike of annoyance. “He’s not _my_ brother. Stop it.”

Seteth slowly shook his head. “I didn’t do anything to offend her. Not that I can think of. I spoke with her some. I tried to reminisce, though I cannot say I was very successful.”

Claude chewed on his cheek. Begalta still needled him with her frustration. There was a tiny underscore of guilt and sadness. “Were you being sad?”

“Being sad?”

“I _told_ you to try and be uplifting. Let me guess: you said something about being sorry a lot” — _a spike of anger_ — “oh, yeah, that’s definitely it. She doesn’t want your apologies. She’s annoyed that she couldn’t tell you that.”

His expression pinched. “I see. Perhaps this was a bad idea, in the future I shouldn’t…”

He gasped as his body was doused in ice, heart clenching painfully and eyes flying wide in sudden panic. _“No!_ Don’t say that! We can try again, please, don’t — don’t—”

Seteth was by his side. “It seems I am only capable of saying the wrong thing.”

Claude grit his teeth, struggling with the waves of _desperate loneliness_ and _fear of abandonment_ that filled his chest to bursting. “Never — ngh, never say that again. She misses you so much it _hurts,_ you ass.” _If brother didn’t want to see him again, then what? If brother abandoned him, what—_

“Claude…?” Lysithea murmured, her eyes fluttering open.

“Hngh,” was the best he could reply with. His heart squeezed.

“My apologies,” Seteth murmured. “To both of you.”

Lysithea yawned, stretching. “I need to get up anyways. Are you hurting still, Claude?”

“Heh. When am I not.” He groaned. His body ached (it always did) but now his emotions ached too. Or something. Whatever it was, it was awful, and he wanted to slap his stupid brothe— _dammit!_ He wanted to slap _Seteth,_ who was _not_ his brother. His chest hurt _so bad._ “Did you at lea-aah, a-at least bring f-food?” he asked Seteth, breathless with the pain. _Two hours._

“I did.” Seteth pulled out a familiar and beloved jar, but for once, Claude was too distracted by pain to feel excited. His chest was tight. He didn’t feel hungry, he felt nauseous. He felt— 

Begalta’s panic slammed into him, forcing out a choked cry. Or maybe it was the pain in his chest. It wasn’t just her panic that slammed into him. Her creststone began thundering against him, echoing down into the marrow of his bones.

_Ah._ That was a problem.

“S-Seteth, h-hey. Unhh. G…get m-my stone, th…the one on the t-tab…table,” he panted, struggling past Begalta’s panic.

He couldn’t focus enough to see Seteth’s expression. “Claude, you will be fed at a steady rate, not—”

“Ngh, give it… to him, brother! M-me, I… I mean. Give it… a-aah… to me.” Did it hurt this bad last time? He couldn’t remember.

Seteth inhaled sharply. “What is wrong?” 

The warm dragonstone was tucked under his shirt. He pulled at the warmth but his pain didn’t vanish. _Some_ of his strength returned, but not much. His hand shook as he reached to reposition Begalta slightly, holding her directly above his heart. He breathed a little easier, both physically and metaphorically.

Begalta or no Begalta, without his crest he wasn’t sure if he could survive his heart stopping. He wasn’t going to risk it.

“Claude, what’s wrong? Do you need Marianne?” Lysithea was worried. He was too.

“N…nope. Ju…st give me… a sec…” There wasn’t much she could do for him. It was a shame they didn’t have any Almyran heart medicine, though he didn’t know if any of it would work for him anyways. “O-or… a few… m-minutes…”

“You’re shaking.” Lysithea started to get up, but Claude used his freehand to snag her wrist.

“D-don’t go… stay… just, don’t jostle… me or, ngh, Begalta…” He glanced back at brot— at _Seteth,_ but the man was gone.

Lysithea shot off rapid fire questions he couldn’t keep up with. “Need to _focus,_ Lys… L-later…”

She went silent, carefully holding him. At some point, Cichol was back with Flayn. She wordlessly brought out her staff, waving the glowing thing over him.

“I’m okay… J-just… lil bit… more…”

“Flayn, what’s wrong with him?!”

“He experienced a heart attack.” Flayn’s grave statement had Lysithea’s fingers digging into his arm. “His heart did not stop this time. It appears it spasmed some, but… hm, yes. Begalta is stabilizing him to ‘reset’ his heart rate. As he said, in a few minutes, he should be fine.”

He grunted against a thrum of guilt. It was so much stronger with Begalta acting as his heart. “My fault. Was… upset. Too… much.” His fingers squeezed into her creststone. “Upset him… h-hurt him… so s-sorry…”

“‘Him’ who?” Lysithea’s voice entered his head like he was underwater. “What are you saying?”

“Starlight…” He frowned. What was he even saying? He shook his head. Every inch of him was filled with Begalta’s booming heartbeat. She wasn’t speaking through him like Teach told him happened before — she was just overwhelming. It was still him — still _Claude_ — that spoke. It was hard to keep track of himself with every guilty and worried heartbeat. So much guilt for upsetting himself. _He_ knew it wasn’t her fault. There were a lot of factors. The nightmares and his discussion with Lysithea and the stress of finding a strategy for Shambhala and the pressure of his position and the endless tide of things he needed to do but couldn’t and— 

And… what was he thinking about again? It was hard to think past the all-consuming thunderous pulses. 

He zoned out for a bit, only tuning in for small snatches of replying to simple questions. 

At some point the grounding force of Begalta’s heartbeat faded into a background pounding. Focusing, he could feel his own heartbeat again. He blinked. There were a lot of people in his room.

“Don’t cry.” He reached out his still shaking hand to Hilda, who quietly wept in the chair beside his bed. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Claude!” More than one voice echoed. The Deer were scattered around his room.

“Sorry for the scare. My heart is back to beating as it should. Check my pulse if you’re worried.” He leveled a weak grin. He was _so_ tired.

“You bet your skinny ass I’m going to,” Leonie muttered, crawling onto his bed to do exactly that. Flayn and Marianne joined Leonie in checking him over.

“You will _not_ be joining us this weekend,” Hilda informed him. “You’re too stressed! Which is making _me_ stress! My heart can’t handle your heart going haywire!”

“If it happens, it happens,” he grunted. “We all know I’ve got a weak heart now. I’m _stressed_ because I can’t do anything. Forcing me to do even less isn’t going to help.”

“We can discuss this more in the morning,” Marianne told him.

“Where’s Lys?” he asked as soon as he realized her spot beside him was cold.

“My brother and her are having a discussion, nothing to worry about.” Flayn told him.

Begalta forced him to return his crest to his dragonstone. It was, for once, somewhat easy given he was already in a lot of pain even with the stone. What was a little extra on top of it? (A lot, but by the time he realized, he’d already done it.)

It was a struggle to stay awake to be fed. As soon as that was taken care of, warm and safe bodies settled in around him. _More than two, less than five_ was the best his brain could tell him before he dozed off.


	35. Soft Starlight

His steps echo in the silence.

“Dedue. You _are_ remembering to eat, right?”

The statue-like man nodded. “I am frequently brought meals.”

“That wasn’t really what I meant, but okay. And sleeping. You _do_ do that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Anything you need? Any accommodations that I can give you?”

“No.”

“Right. Good talk.”

He entered the room Dedue guarded. It took him a bit, but finally he was paying her a visit.

“Come to mock me?”

He settled down on one of the two chairs. “I’m not that cruel, pr—” calling her ‘Princess’ was unnecessary. A reminder of her previous station. A mockery of her time as Emperor. Too teasing. He sighed. “I’m not that cruel, Edelgard. Hey, take a seat.”

She glared at him. “You should have killed me.”

“Maybe. We put it up to a vote. You should thank Teach. They fought tooth and nail for you.”

“Why are you here? Just cut the chatter.”

“I’ve got so many questions. You know that.” _And not a lot of time._ He was using his precious little time to speak with her. “But I’ll start here: how are you?”

“Just get to the _point._ You didn’t come here to ask me about my day.”

“Nope, you’re right about that. Humor me. How are your accominations?” He gestured to the cell around them. It was an old room for political prisoners. Cushy as far as cells went but by any other metric it was barebones. A bed, a table, two chairs, an oil lamp, and the rest of the essentials. There was a small stack of books that someone must have added for Edelgard. He had to wonder how many people objected to Teach putting the former emperor in such a nice cell. “And more importantly, your health.”

“I don’t see why you care.”

“You want a selfish reason? I’ll give you two: you’re not the first person to have both of her crests removed, but you are the first to have a _natural_ crest removed. I’m curious. Beyond that, I don’t want you croaking on me yet. We have work to do together, you and I.”

“You have questions you want me to answer, you mean.” She finally got up from her bed and sat across from him. The chains at her ankles wouldn’t allow her to get any closer than that. She had decent range to wander around from her bed, but not much. “What reason do I have to answer anything, _Your Majesty?”_

He shook his head. “Still just a lowly Grace.”

“Oh? I’m shocked you haven’t crowned yourself. Isn’t that what you wanted? To profit from my spent blood?”

“I’m not here to be your enemy, Edelgard. No need to be a sore loser. We still share a common goal, you and I. More than one goal. So: how do you feel?”

She looked away from him, her remaining hand rising to brush through fuzzy chestnut brown hair. “I have discussed this at length with Lysithea. Ask her. I don’t feel sick or even unwell. I feel… lighter than I have in a very long time.” Her eyes snapped back to him. “How did you do it?”

“Now now, that’s a secret.”

“If they learn about your ability, they’ll stop at nothing to have you in their clutches.” She didn’t have to specify who _they_ were. “You’ve already caught their interest with the rumor of your ‘miracles’. You’re lucky so much of it sounds fantastical. If they thought for a moment you could truly do what they say you can, you wouldn’t be here.”

“About _them._ Specifically: Shambhala. Spill what you know. Hubert’s message to us didn’t say much in the way of details.”

Her expression hardened at the mention of Hubert. “They’re dangerous. Secretive.”

“We playing the hard game? How about I tell you what I know, then. Shambhala, the Lost Buried City. Said to house splendor beyond imagining, of a banished people both wise and powerful. Within resides an endless army, one training to spill forth and cleanse the world above of impurities.” He was mashing together countless myths about the city in his attempt to guess. “Any of that sound familiar?”

Edelgard stared at him for a time, silently working her jaw. “You are surprisingly well informed.”

“Hmm… A shame. Here I was hoping you would tell me I was wrong.”

Edelgard leaned forward, her eyes blazing. _Not broken, indeed._ He needed to be careful with her. “Where did you come across this knowledge?”

“You tell me more of what you know of the Agarthans, and I’ll tell you more.”

She frowned. “Agarthans?”

Claude frowned as well. “The enemy? What was it Hubert called them again… ‘Those Who Slither in the Dark’. Bit of a mouthful. Look, I know they experimented on you. I know you allied with them to use them.”

She leaned back now, straight backed and tilting her head to look down her nose at him. “You obviously have a source of information. What is there left for me to tell you?”

“A lot, really. You planned to take them out after the war, that much is obvious. _So,_ as your ‘successor’ it’s in your best interest to tell me more. Your plans and strategies. The enemy’s strengths and weaknesses.”

Despite everything, Edelgard kept her back straight and chin high. “I’m certain you recall Monica. Their forces can change their shape. My uncle was replaced by one of their number many years ago. Thales. Their leader. They have been pulling strings for centuries. You have no idea what kind of enemy you’re going up against.”

He nodded. “That _is_ why I’m here.”

Edelgard looked over his shoulder off into space. “I hate them.” Her eyes reflected that truth. “They replaced my loving uncle. They experimented on me, on my siblings, on countless others. They stole all power from my father and forced him to watch us die. They are wicked, irredeemable creatures. But all of that was only allowed because of the crest system, the church—” 

“Which is being reformed, we’re not here to talk about the church.”

Her glare shifted to him. “I will tell you everything I know. I only ask one thing in return.”

“You aren’t in any position to negotiate here.”

She cracked a furious smile. “Oh? Yet here you are, begging me for knowledge and secrets. I have information you need. All you have is my life, something that you should have taken already. Something you will take regardless.” She nodded to the door where Dedue silently guarded outside. ”My request is reasonable. I won’t ask for a pardon or my life. All I need is to be there to watch Thales die for what he’s done.”

He raised a single eyebrow. “You want to come to Shambhala. Your dominant hand is gone, Edelgard. If you think we’ll give you a weapon anyways, you’re wrong. You’ll be a liability, even _if_ we could trust you. Which, nothing personal, _we can’t.”_

“You would rather walk in blind than drag with you a one-armed woman? If I die, I die. No one needs to watch out for me. I’ll tell you nothing more of our enemy until you agree. I know Byleth has been considering it.” She tilted her head, a touch mocking. “How curious. That surprises you? I thought the Saintly duo shared all their plans together.”

He needed to talk with Teach. Lysithea and Linhardt too, he needed to talk to the people interacting with Edelgard. He was also out of time. If he didn’t go now, someone would come and drag him back to bed. This was the end of his weekend. “I have other duties to attend to. Consider my words.”

“Consider mine. You’re the one with a time crunch, _Your Saintly Grace._ I’m sure a master tactician such as yourself won’t needlessly lead his forces into a deathtrap.”

* * *

Warm broth was the best. Someday he would be better and when that day came he was going to drink an entire gallon of warm broth. It overrode the persistent chill inside of him, warming his mouth, throat, and stomach. Best of all it tasted _so_ good.

As was cruel fate, eventually the trickle of broth lessened into nothing. His mouth was empty of broth, the warmth and pleasurable buzz already fading. Soon the warmth in his throat would fade, then his stomach would be cold too.

“Please…”

“I know, you want more.”

“Nuh. Wasn’t gonna… ask for more…” He wouldn’t get more. He knew that. No matter how much he begged, they never fed him more. It hurt, but there was one thing almost as good as food that they never denied him.

Leonie lightly patted his cheek. “Oh? By all means, go on.”

“Hug? Please?”

Leonie chuckled. “Sure, just give me a minute.”

“Cuddle too?”

“Sure thing buddy.”

She was _so_ slow unlacing her boots and easing out of her jacket. “Hug…! Please…!”

“Don’t go getting grumpy on me now. You’re getting bossy.”

“Taking too long…” The comforting warmth in his stomach wouldn’t stay for very long. He needed Leonie to hug him before he got too cold. _“Hug!”_

She _finally_ crawled under the covers with him. “Any preference today?”

“Like last time…?” She lifted him up to shimmy underneath him. She then wrapped her arms securely around him. He tilted to bump his forehead against her cheek, weakly using what strength he had to nuzzle against her. “Thanks…”

Against his chest, Begalta echoed his happy feelings. She felt a touch smug and satisfied too, but he couldn’t parse why.

“You’ve gotten so spoiled,” she teased, patting his ribs. “Never pegged you as the affectionate type.”

“Me neither. Mmmm… never knew what I was missing. Cuddling’s sooo nice.”

“I’m just happy we can finally get you something to help the pain.” She very lightly squeezed him. Of course he still ached. He still hurt so much normally. The soft touches of his friends were a distraction though. More and more their touch was drowning out the pain. “It was hard denying you food. I’ll gladly give you this much whenever you want.”

“Comfy…”

“I’m glad, Claude.”

“Can you pet my hair? I like that…”

“Sure thing.”

He drifted off, safe and happy despite the lingering pain.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He cradled his head in his hands, hiding his burning face and glaring down at his lap. “You can tell me no!”

Leonie snorted, passing him his socks. It grated that he needed help getting dressed, but at least he could mostly do it on his own. It wasn't half as embarrassing as his new growing issue. “We do tell you no. Frequently.”

“I’m not talking about food, I’m talking about… about the…” He heaved a sigh. “The _hugs.”_ And the _whining_ and _begging,_ all of it! His sleepy-self finally got the message that begging for food was pointless so _usually_ he didn’t beg anymore. _For food._ No, his sleepy-self instead figured out that all of the Deer liked to dote on him in the ways they could. He’d been banking on his sleepy-self being too stupid to put together that the Deer were responsive to his whining for, _ugh,_ cuddles. Which meant more and more he was whining for the most embarrassing things.

“But you like hugs.” Leonie settled down next to him and wrapped an arm around his waist.

He threw back his head and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Why am I so _touchy?!”_ he shouted as he wrapped his arms around Leonie. It only took a moment for his weak discipline to break. He flopped his burning face against her shoulder and groaned. “I’m not cold right now, I’m not in pain, I don’t get it!” Giving in completely, he scooted up against her. He already took Begalta off of himself so he didn't even have her to plead with to help him through it. Though typically she just got amused and made him feel _more_ dopey with love and affection. With his dragonstone’s energy he was free to return as much affection as he wanted. Unfortunately for his pride, he wanted to return a _lot_ of affection.

Leonie just patted his back, indulging him. “I’m not complaining. Though I’m looking forward to when you get a little more padding, mister boney.”

“At this rate I’ll be craving touch more than food by the end of the month.” Leonie chuckled, but he wasn’t joking. His food cravings weren’t going down much but his cravings for physical contact were shooting through the roof. He could barely control it even in his right mind now. He understood that the Deer made him feel safe and that he was more than a little touch starved, but to this extent? It was good that it was starting to override the pain he felt but the flipside was that it was consuming more of his brain. Not the worst thing in the world given his brain typically was busy with pain, cold, and hunger.

He couldn’t pull away from Leonie and that worried him. He lapped up every scrap of affection they gave him just as eagerly as he ate, and it was _so_ good. _Too good._ It was worrying him less by the day, which alarmed him. 

The door creaked open and Claude went back to hiding his face against Leonie. He _should_ disentangle himself, but he didn’t think he _could_ without Leonie letting go first.

“Good morning Claude. Thank you for waking him, Leonie.”

“Sure thing! Haha, Claude-duty has become the highlight of my day.” She lovingly ruffled his hair which he eagerly arched into.

“Marianne I am _begging_ you, please tell me this isn’t permanent.” He fisted into Leonie’s jacket, hating and loving the attention. He should tell Marianne it was getting worse. He should tell everyone that it was starting to scare him, that it was becoming unmanageable. But if he did that, they might stop. He couldn’t let that happen. “Please tell me this is some weird but temporary side effect of starvation.”

“I’m sorry Claude, we just don’t know enough to be able to tell why you’re feeling this way.” Marianne sat down on his other side, greeting him with a side-hug. His brain went fuzzy with soft, fluffy feelings as he relaxed even further.

He grit his teeth, willing himself not to say something stupid like _I love you so much, too much, I don’t know what to do with myself._ “Hi…” was the best he could come up with as he leaned against her without letting go of Leonie.

“No need to feel embarrassed,” Ignatz said, leaning forward to greet him with a hug too. Part of his mind told him he was being crowded a lot and that there wasn’t much space for all three of them to be hugging him at once. But that part of his brain was a whisper compared to how nice he felt. It wasn’t the all-consuming euphoric pleasure that eating gave him. It was more like being engulfed in a certainty that he was loved, that everything was okay, that he belonged.

When Ignatz pulled away it made logical sense. There wasn’t room for him to be on the bed and he couldn’t just stay half-bent over to hug Claude. But a whine still unwillingly dragged from his throat. “Come back…”

“Oh, here!” Leonie moved, untangling his arms from around her and passing him off to Marianne. He latched right on to the healer to the despair of his pride. Leonie in turn lifted and shimmied underneath him, settling him on her lap and bracketing him from behind. “Come sit here Ignatz, plenty of room!” Leonie patted where she’d just been.

Ignatz gave a small laugh and sat next to Claude. Unwilling to let go of Marianne, he just pressed his side against Ignatz. Ignatz threw an arm over his shoulder.

“Why…” he mumbled past the haze of dopey bliss. _Why was it so nice? Why did it keep getting nicer?_

“I suppose this answers the first test.” Ignatz patted him. “Even while energized, you’re still craving touch.”

“It’s niiiice…” 

“Hah! Clearly!”

“Can you describe how you’re feeling?” Marianne gently asked him.

“Loved.” He squeezed his eyes shut, squeezing Marianne too as he desperately clung to coherency in the flood of soft tenderness. “Uncomfortably truthful. Safe. Embarrassed. Comfortable. Happy.”

“Don’t worry about being embarrassed. It’s been hard to watch you suffer. Being able to make you feel better, if even only a little bit, makes us all feel less helpless. We’re all grateful that we can help, so don’t feel embarrassed.” Ignatz smiled at him and he replied in kind. He couldn’t tell them it might be a problem. He remembered so many tears being shed over him. Hilda, he remembered the time when Hilda sobbed over him about how helpless she felt. No wonder they all loved to cuddle him. It gave them some control over his condition. It gave them a way to help. He couldn’t take that from them. He didn’t _want_ to take that from them. _He couldn’t take that from himself._

Leonie barked a laugh. “Ignatz is right, though ‘only a little bit’ clearly means a lot right now! You’re such a snuggle bug, Claude!”

“Yeah…” He absently nuzzled against Marianne’s shoulder. “You guys are too good to me. If this ever gets out, people are gonna think you’re my harem or something. Why aren’t y’guys worried about me being a creep…?” He directed that question mostly towards Leonie and Marianne. _Because they loved him._

“Pff. Claude, you’re gay.”

He sleepily blinked. “I am?”

There was a beat of silence. “Er, aren’t you? Not that we’ll stop hugging you if you aren’t.”

“Too busy to bother with anyone. Too dangerous to be interested in anyone back home. Perfect way to kill me, plus everyone hated me anyways. Decided having a crush would be a waste of time, so I never bothered. Couldn’t trust anyone when I left home either.” There was a beat of silence. _Hell,_ he said more than he meant to _again._ It was just so hard to care about keeping secrets when he felt so safe.

Leonie cleared her throat. “Not to discount the rest of what you said, but you are aware that people don’t ‘decide’ to have a crush, yeah?”

“How’s it work then?”

“You’ve never had one? Never fancied anyone?”

“Waste of time…”

Leonie ruffled his hair. He loved it when they did that. “You do know even Lysithea had a crush back in the academy, right? People choose what to _do_ about their crushes, but they don’t choose who they crush on.”

“Whaaat? You’re pulling my leg. That sounds awful.”

“Your speech has been slurred,” Marianne noted. “You are energized, yes?” It was how they referred to his state now. _Energized_ when he had his crest, _de-energized_ when he stored everything in his dragonstone. Most of the Deer still didn’t know that he needed the stone for that. Providing he hadn’t spilled that secret at some point. “Claude?” 

“Mmhm, spaced out… Not tired, just… _really_ relaxed. Hehe… I’m gonna be soooo embarrassed later. Y’guys’ll hug me more later, right? So I won’t be cold when I’m de-energized?” He knew they would. They never denied him. They were the _best._

“Of course we will. Was he like this before we came in, Leonie?”

“Hah, nope. It seems three people to hug at once fries his brain.”

“The only thing better than three hugs is four hugs…” Everything felt so nice. He wondered how perfect it would feel if _all_ of the Deer hugged him at once. 

“Should one of us let go of him?”

“Noooo… Stay…”

“Er, he’s not gonna start trying to hug random strangers when he’s up and about, is he Marianne?”

“No strangers, they’re not safe. Only you guys… Love you guys…”

“Fuck. You’re so sappy like this.” Leonie squeezed her hug tighter. “We love you too.”

“Okay Claude, we need to get up now. More tests to run.”

“Five more minutes…?”

“No Claude, time to get up. Don’t you want to practice some archery?”

“Oh… yeah… I guess so…” He made no move to get up. He was perfectly happy where he was.

The three of them bustled around him, finishing in making him presentable to the public. Earlier he did his best to be as self-sufficient as possible, but still high off of contact he couldn’t care less. He loved Leonie combing through his hair, Ignatz putting on a casual jacket for him, Marianne applying a dusting of makeup. It wasn’t as nice as snuggling, but it was still very nice.

“We’re glad you think so.”

Leonie picked him up and planted him on his feet. He leaned into her, already missing the warmth of Marianne and Ignatz. “No Claude, I’m not going to carry you this time. Hey Mari, are you sure he’s going to be able to string a bow like this?”

“Maybe we indulged him a bit too much…”

“Alright pal, you need to let go of me now. We can snuggle later.” Leonie backed away from him. He tried to follow but Leonie kept putting distance between them. It didn’t occur to him that if he tried anything more than ‘shamble aimlessly towards Leonie’ he might actually catch her. When it finally _did_ occur to him, the rest of his facilities returned to him like a snapped bowstring.

“I know Flayn’s waiting for us at the training ground, but I need a minute,” he muffled into his hands as he fought to will away the heat in his face.

“I’d pat you on the back, but I don’t want to make your symptoms come back.”

_That sounds nice…_ “Probably for the best not to, but thanks Igg. Just to say again, you can all tell me no! I’m not going to die if I don’t get a daily hug.” _Probably._

“We don’t mind Claude. You aren’t asking much from us. It’s no trouble.”

He knew Ignatz would say that. He _knew_ they all thought that. It was the only reason he gave them ‘permission’ to tell him no. They wouldn’t deny him, he knew that. He could at least _pretend_ he wasn’t as in deep as he really was.

He groaned into his hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“Nah, you don’t think that. So you’re more ‘touchy’ now! So what? We’ll snuggle the embarrassment right out of you,” Leonie promised him with a wink.

“Maybe you will,” he murmured with a small smile. If he completely lost it to his cravings, would they assume he just stopped feeling ashamed? If that was the case, they would keep snuggling him. He couldn’t let them know it was getting out of control. 

Claude managed to make it to the training grounds without further incident (despite the urge to walk closer to his friends, or lean against them, or hug them…) 

_Archery._ He needed to focus on archery. Archery was a safe topic. He’d been itching to practice for weeks.

After his little heart attack, he’d been forced to renegotiate his eligibility to go to Shambhala. Evil forces threatening all of Fódlan or no, he was _not_ going to miss going to _the_ legendary city! He’d been forced to pull out every trick he knew. He even threatened to pull rank as much as it grated to use against his friends. They were _not_ leaving him behind for something this important. It took him threatening to sneak after them _alone, on his own,_ to finally get them to cave.

It wasn’t just his heart issues and health though. In their eyes he lost Failnaught. Even he was worried about how it would affect his performance. Begalta had and still was something of a crutch for him. Through her he could choose when to activate or not activate his crest at will. She’d also been flat out an overpowered weapon. Losing her fighting capabilities put him in a bit of a bind. He still had her sword at least, but no one wanted him up close to _any_ enemies.

He was worried they might have another incident like the bandit fight back in school where everyone kept watching out for him instead of fighting their own battles. He had to trust that they knew better now.

Flayn greeted him with a hug. His mind scrambled with soft feelings as he eagerly returned the hug. It was a longer hug than most people typically gave, sure, but he managed to pull away _all by himself!_ A single hug would _not_ stop him in his tracks (for more than 30 seconds… okay, 45 seconds. A minute? It only took him a minute to let go). He could handle one person. It was just when they ganged up on him that he lost focus…

Flayn checked his vitals with her staff before they began. He familiarized himself with his new bow as she did. _Parthia._ Where Teach managed to unearth the legendary bow he had no idea. It was no substitute for Begalta but it was as close as he was going to get.

As soon as Flayn cleared him he stood up and fired off a few shots. It _was_ a very good bow. Not as good as Begalta though. She really had been spoiling him all these years. 

He blinked in confusion at his arrows. Not a single one struck a bullseye.

Ignatz leaned over and altered his stance. “You’re not using a longbow anymore, try this instead.”

He hummed, pleasantly buzzed from the brief touches. He fired another shot, trusting it to land its mark. _It didn’t._ He stared at his arrow, now lodged in a tree instead of the target. He sheepishly chuckled. “Wasn’t really paying attention…” He knocked a new arrow and stood in Ignatz’s stance. Focusing, he hit the target this time… but not the center.

It took him a shamefully long time to familiarize himself with his new bow. Leonie and Ignatz had to keep correcting his form, even in _basic_ ways he _knew._ It was humiliating. Whenever they touched him he relaxed too much, unable to focus at all. At some point it occurred to him that if he messed up his stance on purpose they would touch him more. He managed to resist the temptation (mostly).

His friends were too smart. They got wise to his lapses in attention far too fast. They stopped touching him completely instead trying to correct him verbally. That didn’t work either.

“A little to the left. No, not that far. Gah. This isn’t working.” Leonie stepped up behind him and engulfed him in a hug. She positioned his arms. “Like this. Got it?”

His bow dropped out of his lax hands. It was hard to care about holding a bow when he was feeling fluffy from touch. “This isn’t working,” he hummed, leaning into her. Unfortunately she pulled away. He sighed, then groaned. Picking up his bow, he shook his head to clear it. “I hate to say this, but I need to practice on my own. Give me a bit to just figure it out myself.”

He _did_ eventually figure out how to use his new bow. Considering Parthia was _exactly_ the kind of bow he used to use before Failnaught, it was humiliating. It was his _specialty!_ He was supposed to be a master with bows! 

“Looking good, you got it down!” Leonie cheered.

“Stop being nice about this. It’s not necessary. This should be second nature to me.”

Marianne gave him one of her Disappointed Looks. “Claude, you’ve been out of commission for over a month. Anyone would be rusty, nevermind your exclusive use of a different kind of bow for years now.”

“Let’s try some moving targets now!” Flayn lifted an armful of disks to throw.

He nodded, smiling despite himself. “Right. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

It was too hard.

A full set of disks later and he didn’t hit a single one. He gaped at the scattered disks. “I haven’t done this bad since I was a kid. No, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ done this bad!”

They didn’t allow him to accept this defeat, pushing him through another set of disks. He focused, he used the proper stance, he even tried his usual longbow stance without any improvement.

“One more disk,” Ignatz said. “I think I see the problem…”

Flayn threw another disk. The movement caught his eye, he moved and fired. His arrow whiffed entirely off course.

“You aren’t aiming,” Ignatz said. “You see it too, right Leonie?”

She snapped her fingers. “You’re right! I thought he was firing off too early, but he’s not aiming at all!”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m _trying_ to aim. Not that it’s doing me any good.”

Ignatz shook his head. “No, I’m certain of it. You’re reacting as soon as you see the disk, shooting in the right direction, but you aren’t aiming at all. A couple of times you weren’t even looking directly at the disk when you shot. Flayn, another disk.”

Another disk went airborne and Claude shot as he always did. And missed. “Holy shit. I’m not aiming. Flayn, another disk!”

This time he squashed his instinct to immediately hit the target. He watched it lazily soar past him, following it with his drawn bow. He loosed his shot.

The arrow scraped the edge of the disk. A miss, but actually close this time.

“How did you forget how to aim? How have you been hitting things all these years without _aiming?”_

“I always aim! I just trust that — oh. Oh I’m an idiot.” Begalta helped him aim. With Begalta, as soon as he was pointed in the right direction she could line up the perfect shot in fractions of a second. She aimed inhumanly fast. 

In a typical fight, he technically could still rely on her. Her influence over him still worked despite being shattered. It might take a little bit to adjust to only shifting his arm to aim instead of shifting her bones _and_ his arm, but she could still do it. But she wasn’t going with him to Shambhala. They both knew she would get lost in bad memories if she tried. She couldn’t help him with this.

“Dammit. Well, I used to be a great shot. I’m just years out of practice now. With contradicting instincts. _Great._ This… might take a bit to correct.” _Just great. More time lost._

Flayn cleared her throat. “That is enough for today. I will look over your heart, and then back to bed.”

“I can keep going. One more set.”

“Nope, you’ve done enough today.” Leonie clapped his shoulder. 

He lost focus. “Alright.” He listed against her. _Going to bed meant cuddling._

“See, it’s nice when we don’t have to haul you to bed. Finally learning your lesson, huh?”

“Hilda has only dragged me to bed twice,” he mumbled into Leonie.

“Sure. C’mon Claude, we can’t walk back with you clinging to me.”

If he fought back, Leonie would carry him. She stepped away from him. He took a step towards her before shaking his head. “Let’s head back. My heart’s fine, right Flayn?”

“As well as ever.”

“Great. Cool.” He frowned. Aw hell, he was getting jittery. “Almost two hours.”

By the time he got back to his room, he was a buzzing mess. His body craved food, his mind craved affection, and his spirit craved an end to his crumbling control over himself. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to chime in as Flayn and Marianne deliberated over how often he should be allowed to practice archery. 

Marianne and Flayn left to get his meal while Leonie and Ignatz prepared him for bed. 

“Can I take your glove off? Or are you going to keep holding me?” Ignatz questioned with a smile.

“Hah, Claude! I’m taking off your jacket, not giving you a hug. _Oh_ alright.” Leonie indulged him for a precious minute.

They didn’t just tolerate his antics — they were amused by him. He capitalized on that weakness with all he had. It was little wonder they weren’t even halfway done by the time Marianne returned with his meal.

They slipped Begalta over his neck while he was busy staring at his jar of food. By now the Deer were familiar with the detail that he didn’t de-energize without her. He felt her mentally tut at him and then his warmth and energy drained away.

From there he had no resistance. After he was fed they tucked him into bed. He easily convinced both Leonie _and_ Ignatz to stay with him and keep him company.

He could barely feel the pain. He knew it _must_ still be there. He couldn’t feel anything but the warmth and happiness that came from snuggling. Maybe a hint of smug satisfaction that… 

_Wait._ That was Begalta’s smug satisfaction. Why was she…?

He sighed as the fluffy feelings of being held echoed and multiplied inside of him. It was only for a few moments before fading back into the usual dose. Or maybe a little bit extra?

His eyes slipped closed. He was on the cusp of an important thought, but he couldn’t seem to remember what it was about. Something about… distraction, positive reinforcement, pain reduction, feeling loved, Begalta, training the mind, strengthening habit, using her limited influence, promoting behaviour, encouraging patterns to grow even when independent, and… he didn’t even know. He wasn’t sure the thoughts were all his anyways, they were too confusing and he was too tired. He decided he didn’t care and slipped into a happy, painless dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, aimbot broke. Now Claude can't cheat his way through Shambhala (or can he...?) No more aimbot, he'll have to subsist on his perpetual regen hack. or his... perpetual RIEGAN hack ;) 
> 
> Begalta: Hm. He's happy and safe around those he trusts. What if...  
> Begalta: *trips over oxytocin receptors, aka the cuddle hormone*  
> Begalta: *has no idea what she's doing* ... open the floodgates!  
> Claude: FUCK why am i even more cuddly now???  
> Begalta: ;) no reason  
> (Note: not a fully accurate telling of what's happening to Claude. More on that next chapter)


	36. Saturated Starlight

He eased his way into a sitting position. It took him time but it was getting easier. His short periods of archery practice were performing miracles to his atrophied muscles. His situation uniquely allowed him to exercise without preexisting muscle mass. Marianne wasn’t pleased that he was spending so much of his limited food intake on building muscle instead of fat. He argued that it was a good balance. So long as he ate every two hours he was out of the danger zone at this point. 

The results were slow but _noticeable._ It helped that his stomach was adjusting well. While they thought he was sleeping earlier, he overheard talks of surprising him with some solid food in a few weeks. He couldn’t wait.

He was bored. For once there was no one to talk to or snuggle the pain away with. Providing his memory was correct, everyone was in a big meeting about Shambhala. He _should_ be with them. Mild scolding fluttered through him from Begalta. He was sick to death of resting. He _needed_ to do something productive. His hand shook violently as he lifted it to rest on Begalta’s creststone. He’d been floating a concept with her for a few days now, not that it was easy to articulate through their bond.

The alien knowledge nestled in his head was a mystery. He could remove crests. He could graft crests, providing he had the source at hand. He could move his own mutated ‘crest’ in and out of a dragonstone. He was decently sure he could make a dragonstone under the right circumstances. Hell, he could _reverse_ a demonic transformation. He hadn’t ‘known’ any of that until he _did_ it. What else was buried in his mind from an ancient and lost civilization? 

He was curious. Begalta was curious. The only way he could explore what was in his head was to experiment. 

A crest was derived from Nabatean blood. Pulling a crest out of someone was to isolate that strand of power and put it somewhere else; just like with his dragonstone. What was Begalta’s heart, then? All creststones contained the energy that made their corresponding relics so potent. In death just like in life, the heart powered the body.

There was a question that nagged him: what would happen if he withdrew that energy out of her creststone? Would it make a crestslate? A dragonstone? Something else? Her silver creststone wasn’t exactly like a crest but it was close.

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He might not have another moment to himself for weeks. With her permission (and eagerness) he tried to draw out the energy within the creststone.

For lack of words it was _heavier_ than anything he’d touched before. Denser? Thicker, maybe. It was oddly tangible and a bit… twitchy? Slightly tangy, a hint of sage, like he was on the cusp of sneezing without being able to, and an overwhelming taste of thick morning fog. There was also a distinct feeling of a cactus being jammed through his eye sockets — forceful yet without pain. His brain tickled with the cusp of identifying _what exactly_ he was doing. Something was still missing. He couldn’t trigger the alien clarity. He was forced to act by blind instinct and draw out the energy completely.

No crestslate formed. Nothing formed, not even a dragonstone. He shuddered. Her energy wasn’t as ‘stable’ as other energies he was used to. Or perhaps it was just too much for him to properly handle without really knowing what he was doing. It grew and shrank in a cycle until he felt the creststone ‘tap out’. At least he learned something new: creststones were _much_ more potent than crests. In hindsight it was obvious. 

As he went to return her chaotic energy back into the creststone a strange sensation washed over him. Like water running through his empty hands, her energy was gone.

His eye darted down to her glowing creststone. Did her energy naturally return without his guidance? Interesting. Perhaps her creststone worked as a sort of ‘home base’ for her energy? Or maybe the natural state of her energy was to drift back into… 

Begalta’s silver creststone was dimming. He tightened his weak grip, mentally fumbling to gauge what was happening. He fumbled to do _something,_ failing as his instincts refused to pick up the slack. It was like he was holding nothing. Her creststone was empty. The glow drained away completely.

“Begalta?”

Silence.

“Come on, this isn’t funny. Send me something.”

All he could feel was his pounding heartbeat and rising horror.

He tried to push something back into her heart. _Anything._ He didn’t _have_ her energy anymore, it was gone! He might as well be trying to fill a water skin with air using nothing but his fingers. He needed to _not_ panic. He could fix this. It wasn’t like her energy could just fade away.

_…right?_

Begalta was technically dead. Was that energy the only thing tethering her soul to life? The energy he just _removed?_ The dizzying implication slammed into him. He was holding nothing but a chunk of calcified heart. Begalta wasn’t inside anymore. He shoved the part of her corpse away from himself, watching it tumble off of his bed.

He killed Begalta.

His thoughts were slowing in the syrup of panic. His throat choked with nausea. _No. Please, no, not Begalta._ He needed to think past the panic, he needed to find a way to bring her back. She couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t just _leave_ him! After everything she did to keep him alive, she couldn’t just abandon him like this! After how far she came in regaining her sense of self… he couldn’t have… couldn’t have killed her. He… he couldn’t… 

Begalta usually helped him through these waves of panic. There was no lullaby in his head this time. No soothing wave of love. Nothing but his own panic and confusion.

He grit his teeth as nails of dizziness hammered into his skull. He couldn’t afford to fall to fatigue now. Begalta’s soul was on the line. He needed to think. The harder he tried to concentrate, the more the world swam. Confusion rose like a tide, drawing him away from what he desperately needed to stay focused on. He needed to save Begalta. He didn’t know how long she had. He… needed… 

He needed something. Needed to focus on… something. Something important. Like a dream the details slipped from his head. He needed to focus, but he couldn’t remember _what._ His train of thought dissolved, leaving him only with a feeling of urgency, loss, and morning fog lingering on his tongue. His eyes traced the ceiling. 

He sunk into his pillow. He rubbed his cheek against the soft fabric. _Stars._ Had his pillow always been so soft? Had he _ever_ felt something so soft? _Right…_ his increasing sensitivity to touch. Did pillows count…?

He nuzzled the pillow, hyper aware of his skin. The pillow was _so soft, so so so soft._ He could feel every thread against his face. He’d forgotten how _soft_ things could be. There were soft blankets too. Stars, he was _covered_ in soft blankets. He wiggled against the blankets, rubbing the soft fabric against his sensitive skin. He was so comfortable. _Cozy._ He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been cozy.

He shoved his face into the pillow, moaning. He panted, nuzzling it, his mind fixating on how _wonderful_ it felt. He opened his mouth and licked his tongue on the soft cotton. _Taste. It tasted._

He was covered in soft things. _He_ was soft. His skin was soft and ever so slightly squishy, his hands grabbing at himself. Still thin, but even the tiniest amount of skin and meat between his fingertips and his bones set something ablaze in him. He was okay. He was alive. 

_Hard solid can’t move. Bones and tendons and tendons and bones. Numb numb numb. Trapped. Neverending._

He blinked. At some point he spaced off. He was sucking on his pillow. His tongue tingled. He hummed.

_Oh._

That was a nice feeling. What was it? _Humming?_

He hummed again.

_Yes._

His throat vibrated, humming nonsense to himself. His entire _body_ hummed, thrumming with _touch, touch, I can touch._

He couldn’t stop squirming. It was so much. He felt his lips curl into a dopey smile. His face felt so _weird._ _Having_ a face at all felt so weird! She missed it. She missed having a face, it was so nice.

His arms wrapped around himself in a hug. His skin was warm but not feverish. He was cold. But he was warm. So much warmer than bone. She had forgotten what it meant to be warm. She dug his fingertips into the creases of his ribs, poking and prodding the new sensations. Some of her proddings were too rough and she didn’t like those. But she liked holding him. He was warm and cozy and happy and she was happy and she liked this.

She… 

She?

He blinked again. When did he close his eyes? He was still nuzzling his (soft, unbearably soft, deliciously soft soft soft) pillow. He couldn’t think straight… Something was wrong… 

He couldn’t stop squirming. He didn’t want to. He tried anyway, and he couldn’t. The fluffy blankets were heavenly against his skin, and she hadn’t felt _anything_ in so long. She hummed again, enjoying the way it felt along his throat. She could _move,_ she had _skin,_ she was _alive,_ she felt— 

Claude blinked rapidly. He couldn’t stop his focus from shifting. He tried to focus, there was _something_ he needed to focus on, something _really urgent,_ but his thoughts kept coming back to his sensitivity. There was just _so much._ Arms and legs and body and head and fingers and toes and tongue and face and skin and skin and so much skin. Too much. He gave a soft cry. Sound and sight and light and colors and touch touch _touch._

How had she forgotten?

Anger. She bit into the pillow. How _dare_ they take this away from her, lock her away, freeze her in place. How _dare_ they rob her of everything! She only remembered pain, she hadn’t remembered that there was — was — _not-pain!_ An absence of pain. More than just an absence. The opposite of pain. _Comfort._

No, she did remember something else. An old memory. Sunlight streaming onto the rooftop. Basking in the warmth. That wasn’t pain. That was nice too. Looking out into a city she would one day rule. It was a comfortable memory by touch, but the thoughts made her feel dread. Would they ever accept her as their king? She doubted—

She— 

He—

He shook his head, biting his cheek as he tried to _think straight, dammit._ Thinking was… hard. Thinking was hard for her, she deserved some slack. No, no, thinking was what he did _best!_ He was great at thinking! His schemes and plans and tactics… 

Why did he feel so much?

Poison. Was he poisoned? She remembered his youth, the many times he had been poisoned. She remembered the first time his crest activated, the way it skittered under his skin. She didn’t like that memory — it was uncomfortable. She preferred being comfortable. He did too. He didn’t like pain either.

He went to move his hand to tug at his hair. His hand continued to map his ribs. He was familiar with being unable to move (so was she) but he _was_ moving. He just couldn’t control it. He wanted to tug at his hair, he felt stressed, but he couldn’t, why couldn’t he?

She blinked, bringing one hand up to rest in his hair. It grated at her to break her hug, but he felt distressed. She…? _They._ They felt distressed. As soon as his hand touched his hair, she gasped. It was stringy and greasy and soft and different. He needed to wash his hair. She rubbed it through his fingers, crying out as she tugged too hard and spiked pain. It was a shock to run out of hair. Why was it so short? Wasn’t her hair longer? No, what was he thinking, this was the longest his hair had ever been. His hand threaded through his hair carefully. He was filled with wonder, but he didn’t understand why. It was like he was discovering something new, but it was only his hair. His fingers found the shell of his ear, oddly rounded. But that wasn’t odd. Why wouldn’t his ears be rounded? But… shouldn’t they be pointed?

She tousled his hair for a time. Then his nails scraped his scalp and they groaned at the spike of sensation. She could remember her mother running a hand through her scalp once long, long ago. Her mother would sing her lullabies and pet her hair until she drifted off to sleep. No, no, his mother never sang him lullabies. She only ever pet his hair when he was sick or injured.

Did… did his mom have green hair? How long was her hair? Did she have pointed ears? Was she married, or was she a single mother? Was she human? Why was he so unsure? What was her name? Tia… Soth…?

Dizziness multiplied. She clutched onto consciousness. She knew as soon as she drifted away she would realize this was all a dream. It was too much to be anything but. When she woke, she would again be in her unfeeling twisted prison. She didn’t want to go back. She liked pillows. She liked skin.

He hiccuped a sob.

He didn’t want to go back to being bones. He didn’t want to go back to being only a broken weapon. He wanted to stay with Starlight forever. But something was off about that thought. He couldn’t… couldn’t…

* * *

There was a hand in his hair. “It’s been two hours, Claude.”

He knew that voice. The blue-haired healer. Why couldn’t he remember her name? He knew her name. What was it? Everything was jumbled, everything he knew just out of reach, just on the tip of his tongue.

The healer sat him up. His eyes opened. The healer tilted his head. “Ready?”

She didn’t know what the healer was asking, but she nodded anyway.

“Such a smooth nod. How are you feeling, Claude?”

“‘Mmmm naaat shooore…” Words were hard. They shouldn’t be hard. He was great with words. But she hadn’t spoken in so long, aside from one or two times. The tongue was… unwieldy. 

“Another painful day?”

“Nmmm?” No pain, no pain. He didn’t like pain, she didn’t like pain. The healer patted his cheek. They sighed, leaning into the touch. The healer pulled away. She grumbled, reaching out to grab the healer’s hand. She liked the sensation.

“Still feeling touchy?” The healer patted his cheek again. “Would you like me to comb your hair after you eat?”

 _Yes,_ he wanted to say. _Yes, please._ He loved it when they combed his hair.

“...Eat?” She couldn’t eat. She didn’t have a mouth.

“Yes Claude, it’s time to eat.” The healer tipped his head back. “Are you ready?”

“Oh...kay…”

Something hard clinked against his teeth. She didn’t like the feeling, glaring.

The healer smiled at him. “Open up, please. Aren’t you hungry?”

Hunger… hunger… she remembered him complaining of hunger often. He was so often hungry, but she didn’t know what it felt like. She shook his head.

The healer frowned. “You… aren’t hungry?”

“Du…nno?”

“I’m sure you’ll feel plenty hungry as soon as you start eating.”

“Kay…”

She opened his mouth this time. Something thick and putrid hit his tongue. It was so delicious, he was so hungry, he was so excited to eat. She hated it. She spat it out.

The liquid dribbled down his chin. She didn’t like the sensation. It was cold. Worse, it dribbled onto his soft blankets! It smelled awful, like fish.

“Oh, Claude, I’m so sorry! Did you choke?” The healer fumbled for a towel, bringing it up to clean his chin. “It’s okay, you didn’t spill much. We can try again.”

She whined, shaking his head. She broke away from the healer’s grip, burying his face in the soft pillow. She wanted them to be alone again. She wanted the healer to leave. The fishy taste clung to his tongue and she hated it. He wanted to eat so, so badly. Why did he spit it out? He didn’t understand why he did that. He needed to apologise to — to the healer, whoever she was. Maybe if he begged, he would be fed. She would spit it out again if that rancid stuff touched his tongue. She licked the pillow, desperate to rid his tongue of the taste.

There was a hand on his back, slowly rubbing circles. It was _very_ nice, they decided. “It’s not like you to refuse a meal, Claude. How are you feeling?”

“Huuuungry…” he whined into the pillow. Why did his tongue feel so hard to use? “Please…!”

“I know you are. We can try again.”

“No!”

“No…?”

“Won’t eat.”

“But aren’t you hungry?”

“No.”

“Claude—”

He flipped around to face her. He so desperately wanted to sink into the comfort of his pillow and ignore everything. He so desperately wanted to eat food. He so desperately wanted to _understand_ why he couldn’t **think.** “Som’thin’s wrong.”

The healer looked at him tenderly. “Where does it hurt?”

He groaned. “Can’t — can’t reme’ber — your name. But I should.”

“You… you can’t remember my name?”

His head shook side to side. “‘M sorry.”

“Okay. Okay. That — yes, it does sound like something is wrong. Oh dear Goddess, please tell me you haven’t had a stroke. Can you tell me the date?”

He tried. He came up blank.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Blanket.”

“Your _location,_ Claude. Can you look at me, please?”

His eyes didn’t want to obey him, drifting around the room instead. “I’m… here. In… no, under… blankets?”

The healer took his chin and directed him to look at her. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. “I see. I suppose that’s technically correct. Let’s try some simple math.”

The healer offered a simple question. It was easy. Offensively easy. It… _should_ be easy. The numbers slipped away and with them the question all together. The healer repeated the question and he was able to answer it, after a period of time much longer than it should’ve taken.

“That’s… correct. Good. Can you describe the last thing you remember?”

He nuzzled his pillow. “Soft.” He hummed, closing his eyes. “So soft.”

“Please don’t fall asleep yet. Memories, please, your last memory?”

“Soft pillow…? Before that… couldn’t move… hurt.”

“Okay. Where do you hurt currently?”

She glared at the healer. “Tongue.”

“Your tongue?”

“Gross.”

“Oh, are you complaining about the fish oil? My, you haven’t done that for some time.” The healer bit her lip. She looked worried.

“‘M hungry.”

She stroked a hand through his hair. “Will you eat?”

“No.” He whimpered. “I want to.”

Her hand pressed against his skull. “Any discomfort?”

They leaned into her touch. “Mmm…”

“You don’t appear to have a head injury… You say you don’t remember my name. Do you recognize me?”

“Mmhmm… you’re Healer. Important. Nice. Too nice.” He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “Know your name… can’t remember…”

“Can you remember anyone’s name?”

“Dunno.”

“Can you remember your own name?”

“Course. I’m… I… Cl… Be… Kha…?” Their thoughts tugged back and forth, unable to finish before being tugged away again and again.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

“Kha… Khal… n-no, I’m… I’m… S-Star…? Beg… I don’t know… I… it hurts, I don’t…?” They squeezed his eyes shut, mentally grasping for and failing to find solid ground. “N-need to remember… no, need t-to focus on… something? I-it’s urgent…”

* * *

“Go’a way.”

“Once again Claude, no.”

“Wanna be alone.”

“Too bad.”

“Don’ like you.”

“Oh no, my feelings will never recover.”

“Stop acting so childish!” The girl yelled at them. She gestured at the green-haired healer. “This is ridiculous. He was doing fine! He was only alone for an hour at most!”

“Wanna sleep.” These people talked and talked and talked. They were so annoying and distracting. She just wanted to lay in bed and enjoy the soft pillow and blankets.

“Suck it up. I want to sleep too.”

“He refuses to eat but still whines about being hungry. We can’t allow this to continue for long. You know just as well as I that he can’t afford to skip meals.”

Green-healer sighed and moved away. He shivered. Green-healer took away his shirt to look at his chest and he wanted his shirt back. Green-healer pulled the soft blankets up to his chin, which was more than acceptable. “We may need to accept that he’s had a stroke.”

“Absolutely not! Whatever this is, we can fix him!”

“Lysithea, you’re being emotional and not rational. It’s very possible he has had a stroke. It fits. His speech is altered, he’s confused, his memories are warped.”

“How do you explain the way he’s freely moving around? Clearly it _must_ be magical!”

“Or maybe his motor controls have been altered. He’s not in pain either. It’s possible the part of his mind that detects pain was hit. What of cold and hot? Claude, are you cold?”

He groaned. “Freezing…”

“That’s still normal, I suppose…”

She wrapped his fingers wrapped around his skin. “Hmm… warm skin…”

“Or not. If only Flayn knew enough about the brain to give a proper diagnosis! This faith intolerance of his is such a pain.”

“Shut _up._ Go ‘way…”

The girl ran a hand through long multicolored hair. She liked the girl’s hair. She’d never seen that shade of purple before. “What are we going to do? How do we tell everyone that Claude is…” The girl shook her head. “No! I refuse to accept this! We have dragged him through worse!” The girl pointed at him. “Listen to me! I won’t allow you to fade away. If I must personally reteach you everything, I _will!_ Got that Claude?” The girl whirled back to Green-healer. “And that’s only _if_ a stroke is the problem! This is Claude, he has never had a normal medical problem in his life.”

“Lavender…” _Lavender._ He remembered. It was a pretty color. Lavender and white. The lavender girl’s name was close to that. “Lv… Ls… Lys…?”

“Is he trying to say my name?” Lavender sat on his bed and touched his cheek. It was very nice. The expression on her face wasn’t so nice. “You’re close Claude, keep going.”

“Cold…?” He snuggled into her hand. “Cuddle please…?”

“Of course the one thing he _doesn’t_ forget is to ask for cuddles.”

Lavender’s lips pressed tight. “Say my name and I’ll give you a hug.”

“Lavender,” she carefully pronounced, proud of herself for managing the long word. 

“No. That’s not my name. Try again.”

 _Try what again?_ “Cold…!” Lavender’s expression crumbled. “Cuddle…?” Lavender needed a hug, but he couldn’t bring himself to withdraw from his soft blankets to hug her.

There was a knock at the door. A familiar person walked into the room. “Marianne informed me of his condition. Any improvements?”

“Tea…T…Tea…? ” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

“He was so close! He almost recognized them!”

“M…moth...er…?”

Lavender slapped her forehead. “Or maybe he’s feverish.”

The Important Person’s eyes widened. Their eyes flickered down, looking him over. They inhaled sharply. “Where is Begalta?”

Green-healer frowned. Then his eyes grew wide. “Professor, you’re right! It’s gone.”

Lavender demanded his attention by snapping in front of his face. “Where is Begalta?”

“I… I dunno… Where’s…?” He already forgot what the question was. His attention was diverted back to the soft blankets. He snuggled into the pillow.

“Argh! Come on, this is _important!”_

The Important Person approached their bed. “Can you tell me where Begalta is? Her creststone?”

Her attention was snatched away from the sensation of softness and pretty colors. _Creststone._ Something about that word was important. “No! Hurts!”

“It hurts to remember?”

She whimpered, shaking his head. “Don’t like it. Hurts. Can’t feel. Don’t wanna go back.”

“‘Go back’...? Back to her creststone?”

He latched onto that like a lifeline. “Her… her creststone! I… somethin’… need to focus on…” He aimed a pleading expression at them. “I can’t remember, it was… important? I… couldn’t feel…? I… I don’ remember…”

“Creststone, Claude. Begalta’s creststone.”

“S-something… happened? Her… creststone… dropped her? Because… because…” He tugged at his hair with both hands. “Something bad h-haappened… Teach, where’s Begalta? What happened to Begalta?”

“Ah-ha! He dropped the creststone!” Green-healer declared, popping his head out from under the bed. “Now isn’t this interesting.” Green-healer pulled out the remains of her corpse.

She squirmed away from it, shaking his head. “No, no, no…” She clutched the soft pillow and used it as a shield between her and her heart.

“O-kay then. So it’s something involving the creststone. How odd. It appears powered down? ‘Asleep’ maybe? The creststone isn’t glowing anymore.”

“I _told_ you it couldn’t be a stroke!”

Teach—Mother—the Important Person turned to the other two. “I’m getting Seteth.”

After Important Person left, she resolved to ignore Green-healer and Lavender. The two launched questions at her. Green-healer kept waving her heart around as he talked. She sunk into the bed and hid under the soft pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if the way pronouns were used this chapter got too confusing. I tried to make it clear between when Claude or Begalta (or both) were thinking. A degree of confusion is intentional, but please inform me if it's too hard/annoying to read so I can make alterations for the next chapter ^-^'


	37. Shuffled Starlight

They knew this man. He was familiar. He was important. Different from Green-healer and Lavender. Those two finally left them alone, taking away her heart to 'run tests' or something. They just wanted to be alone, but there was the familiar man now. They _knew_ this man.

“Brother?”

Cichol’s lips pressed thin. He sat on the edge of the bed. It was just them and Cichol now. His expression was unbearably sad. “Begalta?”

Guilt flooded his chest. “Seteth, I’m sorry. I don’t… don’t know what happened. She’s gone, I don’t… I can’t…”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning.”

“I… we were…” He gripped his hair, still fascinated by the odd texture. “I can’t focus, I don’t…” His hair was so interesting, pressed between his fingertips… 

Cichol gripped his shoulder. “Breathe with me Claude.”

He couldn’t focus, not with the sensation of Cichol’s hand on his shoulder. A memory blindsided him: a smaller, younger Cichol, hand clasped in hand as she pulled him along the path into the forest. He couldn’t remember where they had been going or why, but he remembered how scared he had been of being alone in the dark woods. He never told Cichol that. Never told him how terrified he was of being alone. He remembered the way they used to be so close. She wasn’t much older than Cichol, but she loved to laud her age over his head. Cichol always had been the more responsible one.

She clutched Cichol’s arm, suddenly desperate. She tugged him closer, wrapping him in as tight of a hug as she could manage. “Missed you, brother. Missed you so much.”

Cichol inhaled sharply as he returned the hug. “I think I understand. You are with Claude, are you not, Begalta?”

His thoughts stuttered like a wheel refusing to turn. _‘With_ Claude’… no, no, he _was_ Claude… wasn’t he? No… that wasn’t right…? He groaned, thumping his head onto Cichol’s shoulder. The hug was _amazing._ Hugs were better than thoughts. Cichol was warm and comfortable and she missed him and never wanted to let him go. He felt different from Lavender’s hand. Less intense. 

There was something different about Cichol. “Your hair… it’s short.”

“It is.”

She ran a hand through Cichol’s hair. It was soft and less greasy than his own hair. “Thought you said… said you wouldn’t cut it ‘nless… unless… I don’t remember.”

“I did not expect you to remember it being long in the first place.”

“Remember when… when Indech accidentally shaved half of your head? You looked so stupid until it regrew…” 

“Of all the things you remember.”

“Was hilarious. Wouldn’t forget it for… for the world…” His voice wavered, the question on the tip of his tongue. She didn’t want to ask the question. She knew she wouldn’t like the answer. But she wanted to know anyway. Cichol always did tell her curiosity would be her bane. “Brother? How come… I feel again?”

Cichol rubbed a hand down his back, soothing and comfortable. He melted into Cichol’s shoulder, arms still loosely wrapped in a hug. “It appears your spirit is in Claude’s body, Begalta.”

They blinked. “Oh…”

Was that why he couldn’t think? It explained the sensitivity. After so long feeling nothing, of course sensation was so wonderful. Relief drenched him. “Stars… I thought I killed her.” He was so relieved she was okay. Better than okay, considering they felt fine.

 _They._ No wonder he couldn’t focus with his attention split two ways. A well of guilt expanded within her. This was _her_ fault, then. He felt guilt too, both his and hers and theirs together. He caused this, after all. How…? Her heart. He’d been messing with her creststone…

Both of their thoughts derailed as the foreign knowledge stored in his head lit up like a beacon. He hadn’t withdrawn the crest like he did with Lysithea and Edelgard. Begalta didn’t _have_ a crest, not in the same way as humans did. He couldn’t separate that from her spirit in the same way that he couldn’t separate himself from his physical blood. If she had still been alive, maybe it would have worked. He wasn’t sure. But her spirit wasn't stable enough to crystalize into a dragonstone. Or more accurately, Nabateans didn’t have dragonstones. Familiar with him and his body, she had merged with the closest thing… 

“I’m an idiot,” Claude muttered. _His body_ was her dragonstone. The sharp clarity was slipping away from him again. Was it hard to focus because she was so unused to thinking like him or was it due to both of them thinking in the same space? What an incredible thing. “Not an idiot, just… too curious for my own good, heh… Right, brother?”

Cichol didn’t reply. He was looking at them with worried eyes.

She buried his face further into Cichol’s shoulder, whining. “Don’t lookit me like that. ‘M fiiiine… You’re such a worrywart.” Already words were flowing easier for her. Starlight knew how to speak, she just needed to allow him to think enough to remember for her. _Starlight…?_ Oh, himself. 

“You appear to be without pain.”

“Mmhmm… Oh, hm, you’re right, that’s weird…” Claude wiggled his fingers with dexterity like he expected from his dragonstone. There was none of the burning heat or explosive energy that usually came with it. He hummed, closing his eyes. “Kinda drowsy though…”

“As tired as usual?”

“Nah. Everything feels so… new. ‘S… disorientating? Doesn’t hurt.” It was so nice to not hurt.

Another brilliant bubble of alien knowledge burst through their mind. It wasn’t her _power_ that had merged with him, it was her spirit. Her soul. And the souls of dragons were powerful things. They felt a spike of worry. Was her soul causing strain on his weakened body? He _felt_ fine… Not strong and powerful like with his normal dragonstone. He just felt… comfortable. _Soft._

 _Was_ she causing him strain? It was her soul animating his body rather than the energy coming directly from him. It was the same as how she could twitch her corpse, she remembered the ‘feeling’. Starlight, _not_ being a corpse, was much easier to animate. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t putting at least some strain on his body… 

“I have to go back, don’t I.” They sniffled at the idea. “Please brother, I don’t want to go back…! I can’t feel, and it’s so dark and lonely, and I can’t think or speak or _anything.”_ He wrapped his arms around himself, fingers digging into ribs. “No, no, stay here, it’s okay, I’m fine…”

“I think it would be for the best…” Cichol’s voice was so quiet.

“No, it’s fine! She can stay, she can stay… We just — we just need to work together. We’re already doing better! Thinking isn’t so hard if we just think the same thing…” She shook his head. “No, I can’t hurt him, can’t be the reason…”

Their head hurt. Disagreeing hurt. She didn’t want to go back, but she needed to. He didn’t want her to go back, there had to be some other solution. She didn’t want to go back. She liked soft things. She liked hugs. She liked being able to move. This was nothing like when she had piloted his body before. That had been like moving a puppet, like feeling his body behind foggy glass. This was so _real._ She could _feel_ and _think_ and _move…_

“Claude needs to rest and to eat, Begalta.”

“I’ll eat the stupid gross-milk…” She hadn’t realized he needed it when she spat it out! Claude unwound himself, clutching Cichol’s arm. “Can’t she stay for a bit longer?”

Cichol looked so wretched and guilty. “We don’t know how her presence affects your already fragile health.”

He glared at the man. “Well _I’m_ the only one that can put her back, and _I_ don’t want to.” But she knew he needed to. “I can too…” she murmured. His head rocked back and forth. “No, I don’t want you to! I hate it there! I, I mean, _you_ hate it there. You can stay here and you won’t hurt, and you’ll be happy, and — and — and I’ll hurt you if I stay, you have important things to do and I can’t help you like this!”

They both knew there was no choice.

She didn’t want to go back to un-feeling. She wanted to feel soft things and warm things forever. She wanted to feel other things too; she couldn’t remember what they were, but she knew there were other feelings too. Ones she would like and ones she would hate. She remembered him napping in the sunlight, once, and she wanted to feel that. But she had to go back.

Did she have to go back _now?_ Taking a nap in the sunlight was easy. He wanted that too, maybe just because she wanted it. He wanted to show her much more. Maybe they could take a warm bath? Or the sauna? Or— 

“I’ll put her back,” Claude said, coming to a decision, “but we have to do something first.” Reluctantly they broke the hug around Cichol. They took Cichol’s hand and smiled. “It’s not late enough to stargaze. How about a walk through the forest? It’ll be just like old times.”

“I’m not sure such strain should be placed on Claude’s body.”

He rolled his eyes. “I get up and walk around all the time these days.” _‘All the time’_ meaning short bursts a few times a week, but still. “Marianne can look me over later and if she says I need to rest, I can skip my next archery session.” He didn’t want to do that. She surged with guilt. But he needed to do this. He continued. “I’m going with or without you. Please, brother? Just this once?”

“You are relentless.” Cichol’s voice broke as he repeated the familiar words from their youth. “Tomorrow you will ask me again. It is never ‘just once’ with you.”

She grinned. “I mean it this time. I always do. Just this once?”

He gave a shaky exhale. “Very well. Very well.”

It was both easy and difficult to stand. Cichol steadied her as she familiarized herself with standing up. The pull and strain of muscles — it felt so odd. She was used to the tensing of tendons, but that felt much more like cramping. Standing as she did now felt natural, if a little sore. It was a struggle not to be distracted by the feeling. He was certain there had to be some level of magic involved. He couldn’t stand unassisted like this at all. How was her soul affecting his body? Were there consequences for two souls residing together in a single body? He was excited at the prospect of so many questions.

She knew standing was nothing to be proud of but she was proud nonetheless. She paced a small circle, strides growing stronger with every step. It was so much different from when she puppeted Starlight’s sick body when his heart failed. He made a face as he remembered that from her perspective. It was disorienting to remember moving in his own body when it wasn’t him moving.

She walked back over to Cichol, grinning ear-to-ear. “I just remembered something.” Cichol’s expressions were so strange. There was such sadness to him now. She hated that, especially when he directed that sadness at her. “You took me stargazing. Recently.”

“Indeed I did.”

“And you did nothing but wax heartache.” She pouted. “Starlight refused to slap you for me.”

She slapped Cichol. 

She gasped at the pain that stung her own palm. But the surprise on her brother’s face was worth it. He gaped at her. They snickered. Claude wasn’t sure why he had refused before — the look on their brother’s face was hilarious. Besides, they didn’t slap him very hard.

She grinned, turning her nose up at him. “Maybe now you’ll stop being such a sad sop. Your older sister knows best, Cichol.”

He gaped at them. “I… you are hardly older than me…” he whispered, disbelief quiet in his voice. It was what he always said.

“Doesn’t matter! Now come, I want to see the forest. _Really_ see it!” He raced to the door, nearly tripping. Cichol caught him. He gave a sheepish grin. They weren't ready to run, apparently. They were both just so excited. He only got out these days when he had work to do. Maybe he could pitch the idea of taking more walks to Marianne. For his mental health (and sanity).

His drowsiness was gone. He still felt off, his thoughts sluggish and constantly straying. Like he was in a dream or like he stayed too long in the sauna. There was a haze to his mind, but it was oddly comfortable. He was walking through a thick morning fog, but he wasn’t walking alone.

“Perhaps you should put on some shoes first. And a shirt.”

“Oh. Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Cut me some slack. I’m excited. Besides, she hasn’t worn clothes in ages.”

Cichol was frowning at him as he pulled out a fresh shirt. He thumbed his fingers between the fabric, enjoying the simple feel of clean cotton. “You sound far more coherent now.”

They nodded as they slipped the shirt over their head. It was baggy. He liked baggy clothes though usually not this baggy. “It’s easier now. Didn’t know what was happening earlier. We were fighting each other without realizing it.” He turned and grinned. “Starlight knows stuff but it’s hard to remember, and Begalta can move around now. Earlier I was trying so hard to think, but _I_ was busy trying to feel, so neither of us could really do anything.” They blinked. “I assume. There’s a lot going on in my head.”

Cichol gave them a worried smile. “So it seems.”

They waved a hand. “Stop that! I’m fine. I don’t know how your hair hasn’t gone grey yet.”

“This is the second time you’ve said ‘Starlight.’”

He bobbed his head. “That’s me. Uh. Me, Claude. It’s what she calls me, because…? Because his soul feels like starlight.” His expression fought between a confused frown and a soft smile. “I have no idea what that means.” _Mostly._ He… somewhat understood? It was like how crests sort of ‘tasted’ to his senses. His soul ‘tasted’ like starlight, which made complete sense and no sense at all.

Putting on socks was an embarrassingly difficult endeavor. She kept getting distracted by wiggling his toes, fascinated by the feeling and the way they moved. Cichol had to help them, much to Claude’s tattered pride. Pulling on his boots was much easier.

“You must eat before we go. You skipped a meal two hours ago.”

Claude nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes, I’m starving.” Begalta twisted his face with disgust. “Not hungry, though.” She gestured to his stomach. “You feel fine! Not hungry at all!” Claude disagreed. “Food is so good!” His nodding shifted as she shook his head in negative, pulling up the memory of being fed earlier. “That was disgusting! Gross! Hurt your tongue!” He rolled his eyes. “It’s an acquired taste.” She ran a hand down his face. “Fine, I’ll eat, but only for your health.”

Cichol watched them with a look of morbidly reluctant interest. Claude recognized the look from himself. Cichol held out a cup of gross-milk. He snatched it up, excited for the rare opportunity to feed himself. “No, _I’m_ going to lift the cup,” she interrupted his excitement. She knew if _he_ did it, he’d try to drink it all in one go and choke. Which was _very_ offensive, because even though she was right, he wanted to do it himself.

“Claude? Or, Begalta? Are you alright?”

They blinked. They had been staring at the cup for at least a solid minute. Time slid away from her easily. Probably due to spending a thousand years in sensory deprivation. “Oh. We’re arguing.” He brought a hand up to his hair and groaned. “Stars, it’s so weird to argue with myself.” Their head ached.

She shook his head, shoving the cup back into Cichol’s hands. Cichol nearly dropped it at the sudden gesture. She tilted her head up and leaned back onto the (so so soft) pillow. “Starlight wants to drink it, but he’ll choke — _I will not_ — so you feed him instead.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I _won’t_ choke.”

She felt the tips of his ears burn. It was a curious sensation. Why were his ears so warm? Because he was _embarrassed,_ because he should be able to drink a simple cup of milk on his own! Which was ridiculous, because he was fed all the time, so why was he embarrassed? 

Their argument was cut short as Cichol brought the glass to their lips. Reluctantly, eagerly, they allowed the repulsive, delicious cream flow down his throat. A mix of disgust and pleasure flooded their senses. It was a new sensation for both of them.

Cichol took the glass away, both blessedly and terribly empty. “We have the same taste buds,” Claude mumbled, “why don’t you like it like I do?” She shook his head, curling lips into a smirk. “You used to hate it too. I remember you pouring it out into a plant one time when Pink wasn’t looking.” His eyes darted to Cichol. “Don’t tell Hilda that.”

Cichol gave them a thin smile. “So long as there are no repeats, I will keep your secret in confidence.” 

She swung his legs back and forth off the bed as Cichol clasped a hooded cloak around their neck. Being recognized was not something any of them wanted at the moment. “Can we go yet? I need to touch a leaf.”

Cichol jotted down a quick note explaining roughly where they were and that everything was fine. Claude didn’t bother to look at it. Then Cichol held their hand as he led them out of the room. “So you don’t run off,” he explained. She didn’t mind. She liked holding his hand. His hand felt different than Starlight’s. Meatier, less veiny and bony. Different callouses. After spending a few moments to feel, she tugged Cichol along. Just as she had in their youth.

It was difficult to hobble down the short stairway to exit the staff dorms. Walking was one thing but going down the stairs used completely different muscle groups. They had to cling to Cichol as Claude slowly remembered how to properly descend. 

She was struck dumb as sunlight hit his face. It was warm. There was a breeze, a light touch-that-wasn’t-a-touch along his skin. The sky was _so_ blue. Had it always been so blue? Or had she just forgotten? It was all so much, even for Claude. Through Begalta’s lens, the familiar sights were new and enchanting.

Cichol, wonderful brother he was, allowed them to take it all in. “How long have I been standing here?” they asked after they got their bearings. 

“Only a few minutes.”

“Okay. Okay. _Wow._ Okay. I’m good now. I’m never taking sunlight for granted ever again.” He tugged Cichol’s hand, heading behind the dorms.

“Wrong way,” Cichol gently corrected.

Claude smirked. “Oh, did you think we were leaving through the gate? I’m not going through the marketplace like this.” The marketplace would be overwhelming as he was now. So many people, so many _things._ “Nah, you’re about to be privy to my secret exit.” He winked. “Hope you’re feeling honored.”

Cichol was not impressed by the small hidden hole in the wall.

She laughed. “Lighten up! You’re so stiff nowadays!”

Cichol’s eyes grew dark. “I am responsible. That is all.”

They wrapped him in a hug. “You can be responsible _and_ fun! Just look at me!”

“Begalta, you have never once in your life been responsible.”

“Aww, that’s the Cichol I remember.” She winked. “But I didn’t say—” they stuttered to a halt.

“Begalta?”

“S-sorry. Begalta hugged you, but Claude is the one that said you can be responsible and fun. It’s confusing for me too.” They squeezed him in the hug before pulling back. “Gah. This must be the most awkward family reunion in history. You’re taking this all in stride.”

They were rewarded with a gentle smile. “I’m grateful regardless of the strangeness. This is an opportunity I thought forever lost to time. And perhaps I have grown somewhat desensitized to oddities surrounding the two of you.”

They tugged him through the opening, leading him away from the monastery walls. The forest wasn’t far. She couldn’t restrain herself as she broke into the treeline. She let go of Cichol’s hand, stumbling into a run towards a tree. The _smell_ hit them. The earthy scent of pine and foliage was amazing. They loved it. She hadn’t been able to smell anything in so long. Claude loved it too. Though technically familiar, it was overwhelming and new.

They got lost in experiencing sensation. Their combined thoughts went quiet, nearly nonexistent as they took it all in. They felt bark and leaves and pine needles and grass and dirt. They listened to birdsong and the rustling of leaves and the distant babbling of a creak. They just _felt._ They flopped on the forest floor and closed their eyes, _content and happy._

An amazing idea came to Claude. He hopped up with a delighted cry, yanking off his boots and socks. There was a nearby patch of sunlight seeping into a thick spot of moss. He took two steps before cursing as he stepped on a branch. It was a mistake to take his boots off first and walk second. She laughed at his eagerness, but she felt the same. The dirt and ground felt so much different against his feet than against his fingers. She cried out again as a sharp branch poked his feet. She didn’t like the pain but he was more used to it. It was much different than his usual tide of tiny pains. It wasn’t debilitating. He hobbled and hopped over to the sunny patch. His toes wiggled in the sun-warmed moss. He sunk down into the mossy patch and she gasped at how cushy and soft it was. It was such a different softness than the softness of pillows and blankets and shirts. It was squishy and damp. She rolled around in it, loving the sunlight and mossy smell.

She squealed in delighted surprise as a little bug crawled onto his arm. She’d forgotten about bugs! Claude identified it as a common centipede. She squirmed as it crawled along his arm, the sensation so strange. It was nothing like the crawling of his crest under his skin or the worming of power through her bones. He gave a mental apology to the little bug for comparing its nice skittering to such horrible artificial skittering. She nuzzled the moss, enjoying the way the little strands of plants tickled his face. She closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of _feeling._ His thoughts were so peacefully quiet.

_No war. No fighting. Not in this moment._

They laid in the sunny patch of moss for a while. “Oh!” Their eyes snapped open. “Brother!” Leaning against a tree trunk not far away was Cichol. Claude recognized the trunk, mirth spreading through them. The unflattering caricature he’d carved of Seteth’s face back in school was half-way covered by the man himself. Hopefully he’d never learn that it was Claude that carved it. Cichol’s smile was much less sad, much more fond now. They patted the moss beside them. “Come! It’s squishy! Soft!”

Cichol chuckled. “I will stand, but thank you for the invitation.”

They leveled him with an unimpressed look. “It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order. Brother, it’s _soft!”_ She rolled his eyes. “You don’t have enough soft things in your life. You wouldn’t be so grumpy if you did.”

“Very well, I suppose I shall join you on the moss.”

They grinned as he joined them. She leaned against him. “Wanna feel the centipede?”

Cichol sputtered. “No thank you! Why are you letting it crawl on you?”

“It’s different! It’s a good crawling, not a bad crawling. Here!” They deposited the little bug onto the back of his hand. Then burst into laughter at the displeased look he gave them. Cichol shook the bug off into the moss.

She hummed, closing his eyes. “Wish I could spend more time like this. Eternity wouldn’t be so bad if it felt like this…” He wondered if there was any way to change how her prison felt. There had to be something… If nothing else, he could always merge with her like this again. Maybe not all the time, but every so often… 

She liked the idea.

“Begalta… please, I must know. Is it truly so awful, the existence you have found yourself in?”

“With Starlight, it’s not bad. Before I woke up it was… it was awful, but I wasn’t aware of the possibility of it being anything else. In that sense, it wasn’t so bad.” She sighed. “Now I know what I’m missing.”

“Do all of our siblings feel the same?”

“Don’t know. Probably.” She clenched the moss between his fingers. She wanted to focus on sensation, not thoughts and speech. But it was also nice to be able to communicate. She wanted to communicate so, _so_ badly before. Even back before she could coherently think. “Brother… I need you to do me a favor.”

“If it is within my power, I will do so.”

“Should Starlight die, I need you to destroy me. Wait, hold up, what?” Confusion sparked through them, followed by painful understanding. “Oh. Oh.”

“Begalta, what do you mean by that?”

“Through Starlight, I’m able to see and hear a bit. It’s nothing like the real thing — I can see that now. But it’s more than the nothingness of before. I can’t go back to nothingness. I won’t. Please promise me, brother. I’ve lost myself to the nothingness before. Haven’t gotten it all back, and I don’t think I ever will. I don’t want to lose myself again.”

Cichol swallowed, giving a shaky exhale. “Very well. I understand. Should such come to pass… I will honor your request.”

She wrapped him in a hug. “Thank you. I’m sorry to ask this of you.”

They woke up some time later, having fallen asleep on Cichol’s shoulder. They shivered. The patch of sunlight was entirely gone. The beginnings of dusk were settling in.

“I’m ready to go back,” Begalta whispered. “Not sure I am though…” Claude said.

Cichol helped them put their socks back on. She picked up a branch to touch on the way back. She liked the bark, peeling it apart to reveal the moist wood inside. It was oddly stringy. She wondered what the insides of her bones and tendons looked like. He didn’t like that thought. Probably dry and the same as the outside, he guessed nonetheless. The leaves were her favorite. She entertained herself by tearing them up just a little, feeling the top and bottom and inside the tear and the stem and all over. They were back in the monastery before she knew it. At some point, Cichol pulled up their hood for them. She wished time didn’t slip away so easily.

She dreaded going back into her corpse. She was so much _more_ now than she had been this morning. Her mind was alive in a way she hadn’t been in so long. He was afraid. He was terrified that she would lose all that she gained.

They focused on feeling the branch instead. Time slipped away and they were before the stairs. Reluctantly they dropped the branch. Getting _down_ had been one thing, but going _up…_ He knew vaguely how he was supposed to do it. Like much of today, he wouldn’t fully remember until he did it (and probably tripped). He glanced at Cichol, begging him to understand through glancing alone.

Cichol, being the amazing brother he was, offered them his arm. They squeezed his arm, carefully taking a step just after he did, watching Cichol’s movements and attempting to mimic them. Predictably they did trip, boot smashing into a step when they failed to pick his foot up high enough. He muffled a shout at the pain that shot through his toes. It wasn’t too bad, he noted, but to their still sensitive senses he might as well have broken a toe. He squeezed his eyes shut as he bent down to clutch at his boot.

They made it eventually. His room wasn’t the private sanctuary he’d hoped for.

_“Claude!”_

“Hey Lysithea… Eheh… you look angry…”

“Uh-huh. _I wonder why!”_ She snagged his sleeve and yanked him towards the bed. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?! _Goddess._ At least you remember my name now.”

“I thought Ci… er, Seteth left a note.”

“Yeah. _‘Claude’s fine, we will return soon.’_ How helpful!”

Claude felt a sheepish smile spread over his lips. His usual quick witt was still absent so he had no excuse. He shrugged. He didn’t know how to calm Lysithea down. He tried to take his boot off instead. His stubbed toe throbbed but the pain was fading. Getting his socks off was even harder.

He blinked. Was Lysithea still talking to him? “Sorry. What did you say?”

She gave him a long, concerned look. “You’re still spacey. You shouldn’t have been out of bed. And — oh, gross! Why are your feet caked in dirt?!”

“Because I walked on dirt…? Is that a trick question?”

“There are _leaves_ in your hair! What were you doing?”

“Walking… in the forest?”

Lysithea threw up her hands and whirled on Cichol. Claude knew he wouldn’t be any help to the man, so he didn’t try. Something about the scene of Lysithea berating their brother was amusingly familiar. Laughter bubbled from his lips. The argument stopped to give him more concerned looks. They kept laughing. 

“Claude…?”

They pointed at Cichol. “I’ve still got it! Didn’t even take me a day to get you in trouble again!”

Cichol cleared his throat and returned a stern look. They laughed harder. Cichol sighed and deflated some. “Of course you find amusement in that. Not even death stops you from finding some way to pin the blame on me.”

“Hey, _you’re_ the responsible one! That’s on you for saying yes to me!”

“I need an explanation _yesterday,_ Seteth!”

He left his brother to deal with that. His laughter died down as his eye landed on the other person in the room. His heart stumbled over something bittersweet. “If you’re waiting for my permission to examine me, you have it.”

Flayn approached them, smiling weakly. “Marianne told me what to expect. You seem in better spirits.” Flayn. _Flayn._ Her niece. Cichol’s little girl, almost fully grown.

“Heh. _Spirit._ Yeah, I’m feeling better.”

“Shall I look you over? I doubt there is much I can do without magic, but—!” They hugged Flayn, melting against their niece. Flayn giggled and returned their hug. “I suppose you cannot be _too_ unwell.” Soft feelings of warmth seeped past their clothes. It bordered on being too much for Begalta, but she would be damned to die again before she let go of her niece _now._

Something sparked like thumbtacks and thunder in the back of his brain. An image both dreamline and vivid imposed itself over their vision.

_Cichol sobs over his little bundle. She smiles at him so wide it hurts. She ruffles his hair. His braid is sloppy and half undone from neglect. “Still crying? Barely a day old and your girl is already a heartbreaker.”_

_Cichol sniffles pathetically, snot dribbling. “She’s perfect. Look at her. She’s perfect.”_

_“Have you even allowed your wife to hold her?” she laughs, pulling Cichol into a side-hug._

_“She’s sleeping still. The birth was hard.”_

_“But worth it. Are you going to let me hold my niece?”_

_Cichol hunches his shoulders. “Perhaps tomorrow.”_

_She laughs again and allows it. “It’s good to see you so happy.” She bends over to pet the little tuft of hair on Cethleann’s head. “She looks just like you…”_

“…ude?” A sleeve swiped away the tear rolling down his cheek. Their vision was blurry. Cethleann looked concerned.

“They’re happy tears. I remembered…” his eyes reluctantly moved away, falling on Cichol. Cichol and Lysithea were watching him with more looks of concern. “Wh-when she was a day old. You couldn’t stop crying, wouldn’t let me hold her. I remember.” Something painful clenched his gut. “Tomorrow never came. I had to go. That was the last time I saw you.”

Cichol was by their side. Grief overwhelmed the happiness. In Starlight’s living body, grief felt so much worse. She clung to what remained of her family. Distantly she could hear Cichol explaining. She didn’t care. She was so sad, and happy, and it was all so much. She didn’t know how Starlight could handle this sort of thing on a regular basis.

He didn’t know how long it took to pull himself together. “Sorry. That was long overdue.” She felt wretched, she didn’t understand how Starlight could keep going.

“You are my aunt. Aunt Begalta…” Flayn’s lips twisted. “Apologies. Merely ‘Begalta’ will have to suffice. It is too strange to call Claude my aunt.”

He chuckled. “Trust me, it’s strange on my end too.”

“So you’re… possessed. By a… ghost.” Lysithea was a good distance away from him.

She snickered. “I guess that is what I am. A time-lost ghost…”

“Why am I not more surprised? Claude, how are you _this_ weird? When I told Linhardt that you’ve never had a normal medical problem in your life, that wasn’t a challenge!”

“You’re taking this well.”

Lysithea cleared her throat. She was a bit pale. “Seteth explained much of it to me before. You told me of your… _ghost_ dreams. But the… _ghost_ bit is… She can’t possess anyone but you. _Right?”_

“Just me.”

“This isn’t permanent, right?”

They shook their head. “I’ll go back soon. I just wanted to feel again.”

“Which one of you is talking?”

“Honestly, sometimes I don’t even know.” That earned him more worried looks.

They came to a problem as soon as Flayn touched him, skin to skin. The feeling was a white-hot iron branded into his skin, so nice that it hurt. _He_ knew the sensation well, but _she_ didn’t. She shouted and flinched away.

“What’s wrong?” Flayn’s fingers brushed his cheek and she shouted again.

“Stop! Too much!” Earlier in their haze of too many sensations, touch was just another wave in an ocean. Now it was a tsunami in a pond. He groaned, warring with his own desire to seek out that warm touch again. Begalta couldn’t handle it, but he wanted it so bad. 

“Take a deep breath. Collect your thoughts,” Cichol whispered to them, taking their hand in his.

“Better.” Cichol was warm but not overwhelming. There was no echo chamber of… of…

_Of what?_

She reached out with his hand. She rested Starlight’s hand on Cethleann’s. She couldn’t hold it, it hurt too much. She had to flinch away, tucking into Cichol’s side. “You didn’t tell me it was so much! Starlight, you didn’t tell me!”

Everything fell out of sync. She was panicking and he was confused. Their thoughts twisted like snakes hissing and snapping at each other. Something was going on around them, but their inner thoughts were too distracting.

A burning supernova reached into his flesh and she shouted again. He tried to push towards the warmth — the _only_ warmth in life. She tried to flee from the burning explosion searing into their soul. The echo of Starlight’s light, pristine and untattered as his own, called out through the fire. It was comfort, safety, trust. It was family. It was a fraction of what was once himself, melded into the shape of another to no longer be recognizable. It was the soft pleasure of a campfire crackling beneath the starry sky. It was a mirror of silver, reflected over and over into something too potent. It was _everything, all at once, and it was too much._

“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know… just wanted to help…”

She knew the feeling. It was recognizable from the impression passed through the thick glass of her cage. It was something that brought him comfort and eased his pain. She couldn’t do much from her prison. But she could influence him. Whenever that soft light had touched him, she reinforced his enjoyment of it, passing as much love and comfort as she could. Everytime his trusted lights touched him, she reinforced it. Even as he slept, she made sure that the touches from his lights were encouraged. Eventually her work bore fruit and his body understood how necessary his lights were even without her influence. She continued to influence him regardless, pushing him until his mortal form understood the light was more important than any pain. She thought it was good. He stopped feeling pain when his lights reached out to him. 

She knew he was worried about it. She hadn’t known how intense it was! She didn’t _know!_ She thought it was fine. She thought it was good. He _liked_ it! He wanted it, and craved it, and enjoyed it! Only _some_ of that was from her influence training his mind and body. 

“It was you! You did this… you didn’t tell me…”

 _Supernova._ He _knew_ there was something unnatural with how their touches left him feeling. He _knew_ there had to be a reason he was so touchy! His body was tuned with every sense to feel and bask in the warmth. It wasn’t _just_ love and trust. There was more to it. An equation on the tip of his tongue.

His mind passed between them like a baton, sloshing side to side in a messy tide. She didn’t mean to — he wanted to know _how_ — she wasn’t sure — he was trying to focus — she couldn’t reverse it — no, he knew she didn’t know _for sure_ if she couldn’t — she didn’t even know what she was doing, she could barely think — he couldn’t think _at all,_ he couldn’t catch up, he — she gushed with worry, about how this would affect him — he _needed to think, Begalta, stop —_ she was _trying!_ She didn’t know how to _not_ think anymore! 

“I’m not angry, just stop…”

He couldn’t be angry at her, not anymore than he could be angry at himself. He felt her guilt and understood it as his own. She didn’t keep it from him on purpose, it just wasn’t easy to communicate complex things between them. The rush and joy of helping him behind the scenes was spoiled now by worry. _It was so much._ She couldn’t reverse it.

“I just wanted to help… I didn’t know…”

There was something else on the cusp of his mind. She continued to sidetrack him, thoughts spiraling away from his and dragging them both into more confusion. **How.** He needed to drag them on topic. **How.** How did it work? She didn’t know, she was sorry, she **how, how, need to know how.**

The reinforcement… it had to be more than that. Cichol had no supernova under his skin, nothing enticing him to lose himself in the haze of warmth. Cichol’s touch was still welcome, beloved and warm, but it wasn’t the overwhelming haze of the rest of his friends. Moth—Teach was the same. He would be happy to cuddle with his brother or Teach, but they didn’t cause the blissful haze he was growing used to from the others.

He wanted to know why. She had no answer for him. Thought was new for her, most of her actions weren’t thought out. She’d just wanted him to feel better… 

They both wanted his body to feel better. He clung to that like a lifeline. They agreed, their thoughts realigning. Agreement was important. Neither of them liked the confused mess of being out of sync. He would think about it more when his focus was better and she would accept he wasn’t angry at her.

They opened his eyes. People were arguing around them. There were more people now than before. He clung to Cichol. Cethleann hovered by his side. He was wearing different clothes. He was clean now. How did he manage to space out of getting a _bath?_ Judging by the lingering taste on his tongue, he even _ate_ without noticing.

“How long did we space out for?”

Cichol patted his hair. She leaned into the nice touch. “Are you still arguing with yourself?”

“No. We got it cleared up.”

Cichol cleared his throat. “Claude’s coherent again.”

Heads swiveled to him. “Urgh. Don’t look at me like that. We’re fine.” His words didn’t help any of the concerned looks. “What did I miss?”

“You’ve been babbling to yourself for hours!” Hilda shouted at him.

“Hours? Wow. Thought it was only a few minutes… Huh. We had a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

Marianne was beside him. How long had she been there…? “You’ve been shouting periodically. Are you still in pain?”

“Not pain. Just oversensitive. This is the first time I’ve felt _anything_ real in a millennia! Cut me some damned slack!” She heaved a groan as he fought to contain her burst of frustration. “Sorry. Shouldn’t yell. Emotions feel different like this.”

“Begalta… right?”

“We’re both here. Hey guys, I figured out why I’m so touchy! Kinda.” _Wait,_ he didn’t want to tell them. He didn’t want them to stop touching him. Would it even help if he got them to stop touching him? “It’s weird. I’m still so cold, all the time, but I’m hot right now… um, me, _Claude,_ I’m cold. A-and me, Begalta, I’m warm. But we share the same body, and my — our — _the_ taste buds taste differently. There’s a, uh, d-difference. It’s… uh. I lost my train of thought. Not sure where I was going with… whatever I just said. I’m… going to stop talking. My head hurts.” He cringed against the silence. Not his most elegant speech. 

“You two should try to separate,” Cichol said.

Their shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Can we have some privacy? It might take us a bit.”

“Last time we left you alone, you ended up unable to string a coherent sentence together. Because you went and injected a _soul_ into yourself, idiot!”

“And I have come a _very_ long way in relearning how to speak within a day, _thank you very much._ I promise we won’t do anything reckless.”

Somehow his friends still trusted him (begrudgingly). She squeezed Cethleann in a parting hug, praying it wouldn’t be their last one. It was hard watching her niece walk out the door.

“Would you like me to stay?”

“I’m sorry brother.” She reached up and cupped his cheek. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to weather these years alone. I’m sorry I died.”

“Don’t apologize. Please do not apologize.”

She spared him a smile. “See? It hurts to get apologies like that, doesn’t it. Now you know why I wanted to slap you. She’s beautiful. Cethleann is. Your wife would be proud. I… don’t remember her. I’m sorry. Will you tell me more about her? About what you’ve done in the years I’ve missed? Not now, just… maybe we can go stargazing again.”

“I would like that very much.”

“Hah, that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to call me a pest.”

“You are no pest. I missed you so much.”

“Don’t cry brother. This isn’t goodbye.” _She really, really hoped it wasn’t goodbye._ Starlight’s years of experience keeping a careful expression kept the fear from showing. “Thank you for indulging me today. Brother… I’m not like I used to be. Does that bother you? I don’t think this is how I used to talk. I think I used to be different, but I can’t remember.”

“It’s true, but I don’t mind. You’re still Begalta. Still my sister, even if you talk like Claude now.” He cracked a weak smile.

“At least I don’t sound centuries out of date like Cethleann, I suppose. This isn’t goodbye, brother, please don’t cry. You never did outgrow your crybaby phase, did you.”

Cichol sniffled. “Somehow you always manage to drag it out of me. Would you like me to stay?”

“I’d like to be alone with Starlight for a bit. Talk a little more, while I still can.”

“Of course. This isn’t goodbye.”

With one last hug, Cichol left. 

“This isn’t goodbye,” Claude repeated to Begalta.

Alone, just him and her, they took her heart in his hands. They laid down. She savored the softness of his pillow. He brought her creststone up to his chest, resting her heart against his.

“I don’t want to do this. We really should though. Head might explode if we don’t. Think that’s possible…?” No answer. “I don’t even know which one of us is talking. Think that’s a bad thing?” _Still no answer._ “Hah. This takes ‘being of one mind’ to a new level. I don’t want to go back to being alone…”

His fingers traced her heart. “We’ve come a long way. Even if all our progress today amounts to nothing, I’m glad we got this opportunity. You’ve been there for me like no one else. Hah, still don’t know which one of us thinks that… guess we both do. Do you think a creststone can hold more than just a dragon’s soul? Can it hold memories and thoughts too? Not like a living brain can, but maybe… hah. What happened to our old optimism? We’re expecting the worst. We told brother this wasn’t goodbye. I wasn’t lying, but I’m terrified. Are you? Right, silly question. If we keep stalling, we’ll lose track of time again.”

Together, they closed his eyes. With that knowledge that wasn’t theirs, he felt for Begatla — she felt for herself. He just needed to channel her into her creststone, the same as he channeled his own essence in and out of his dragonstone. Simple.

Separating themselves was _not_ simple. It was like trying to separate a pile of two slightly different colored grains of sand. Sectioning off his King’s Mark/crest energy was similarly difficult in theory. There was a reason the First King saw fit to leave a chunk of knowledge in his head. What he did would be impossible if he had to do it consciously. 

They steadied their breathing. Calm. They let go. The alien instinct did the work for them.

It was hard not to fight back as he felt a part of himself trickle away. Not gone, but apart. He became _less._ Vertigo crept up on him and only grew. His hand stayed on her heart, syphoning her away.

At some point it was finished. He blinked. Only a few seconds passed. She pulsed under his fingers, mentally reaching out to him. He squeezed her stone. Dizziness crashed into him. His limbs grew weak and limp. A haze fell over his senses, dulling them to what was probably his usual feeling but now felt so much less. Pain crept out from within his bones, feathering outward until the familiar thrum fully returned.

 _‘I’m here,’_ she whispered to him in a weak but audible voice. She whispered in a clarity she once could only manage in his dreams. _‘Still here.’_

He could feel it. Feel _her._ She was foggier, like she was half-asleep, but she was still with him. She hadn’t lost anything. Their combined relief crashed into him, leaving him breathless.


	38. Sacrosanct Starlight

He puffed out a breath, basking in the warmth and comfort. Hilda was at his back, fresh air and sunlight at his front. Sunbathing, he recently discovered, was one of the few things that could warm him. It wasn’t as nice as snuggle-warmth, but nothing could match snuggle-warmth. 

Some of the deer theorized his recent ‘stunt’ was a product of him going stir crazy. He couldn’t entirely disagree. Regardless of how true it was, he appreciated being able to sit out on the hidden little balcony in open sunlight. ‘Claude-duty’ now involved keeping him entertained. It was somewhat offensive they thought he would blow himself up without supervision. Given his musings on what might happen if he combined both Begalta’s soul _and_ his dragonstone in his body at once… maybe they had a point.

(He was pretty sure it’d kill him. Begalta’s soul was a lot to stuff into a mortal body, on top of his own soul already taking up the space that a soul was supposed to. She slotted neatly into where his blood’s power used to overflow from. No, neatly wasn’t the right word. She… ‘fit’. Kinda. Like his joined dragonblood ‘fit’ into himself. It was metaphysically cramped, but they made it work. Adding his dragonblood back into that though… He was pretty sure it wouldn’t instantly kill him. Maybe. The chances of him physically exploding were under 20%. He _was_ curious if he could manage it in small bursts. Not curious enough to try it though!)

Maybe his friends had a point.

Well-intentioned belittlement aside, his pride didn’t give a damn. Being ‘entertained’ meant more snuggles. He was working his way into them letting him stargaze one of these nights. They were worried about him getting a chill and getting sick. That was what a cuddle pile was to prevent! His sound logic had yet to sway Marianne.

“I can hear your big brain thinking. You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

He hummed, letting his eyes slide shut. “Oh trust me, I’m very relaxed. I demand to be spoiled with sunlight more often. I’m a wilted plant, Hilda, I need the sun.”

“Maybe if you stopped aging us prematurely, we’d treat you more often.”

“Does this mean you forgive me?”

Hilda tugged sharply at a strand of his hair. “No. I’m still pissed off. I’m only braiding your hair because _apparently_ your worst enemy is yourself. Next time you’re bored, request a book or board game or something.”

“I said I was sorry…”

“We thought you lost your mind, jerk.”

“I didn’t though! I’m fine!” She tugged his hair again. “The healer quartet said my health didn’t dip at all.”

Hilda abandoned whatever complicated braid she was weaving, wrapping her arms around his chest and laying her chin on his shoulder. “And I’m glad you’re okay. We all are. But if you aren’t starving, it’s your heart that gives out. And if it’s not that, you go and invent a new problem!”

“I wouldn’t have done anything that killed myself. I’m not _stupid.”_ Granted, he _thought_ he accidentally killed Begalta for a bit there. No one needed to know that. “I just wanted to know what would happen.”

“Those are going to be your last words, dummy.”

“Nah. Last words’ll be… _‘I might be 95, but I bet you 40 gold I can still do a back-flip off a wyvern.’”_

“I missed this stunning optimism of yours. Look at you, almost back to your old self.”

“Getting there. I might be able to walk in a month.”

“Yep, still overly optimistic. You can’t even stand yet, silly.”

“Never said I’d be walking alone. In a month, I bet I could manage it with a little help.”

“I’m glad you aren’t in pain anymore, but I wish you were more careful with your health.”

He closed his eyes, tilting his head into Hilda’s hands. Begalta had been trying to fix the damage to his sense of touch without much success. He was _slightly_ less needy, maybe. It was hard to tell. He might just be getting used to it. Her attempts to send him negative emotions whenever he touched his friends to counteract her previous positive reinforcement was foiled by the fact that she was _shit_ at lying. She couldn’t project hate or apathy to discourage his body’s appreciation for touch. Despite her attempts, she often still love-bombed him in those situations. He appreciated her. Inconvenient as it was, she cared about him so much that she couldn’t _not_ leak her love. He couldn’t be upset at that.

Seteth had Begalta currently. They were spending more time together and he was happy for them (even if he felt left out. Seteth _wasn’t_ his brother, no matter what his crossed wires told him). For now he was on his own to curtail his desire to melt.

“Have you thought about getting this cut?” Hilda combed her fingers through his hair. It felt too long and too short all at once. He kept expecting it to be long like Begalta’s once was.

“I’ve thought about it.” Usually he preferred short hair. It was easier to maintain, less wasted time, and in general men of Fódlan gravitated to short hairstyles. However, It would be ideal if his hair was long enough to be braided for when he returned home. “I don’t think I will.”

“You just like us combing your shaggy mop, don’t’cha.”

“You’re the one that said I’m not allowed to cut it because you have too much fun styling it.” She meant that as a joke, probably, but he wasn’t about to get rid of his hair when it made her (and him) so happy. “Is it long enough to braid?”

“A short braid, yes. How do you want me to do it?”

“Marianne had a really nice braid the other day…”

“You want a braid crown?”

“Mmhmm…”

“Okay, okay. Don’t go all melty on me.” He was _absolutely_ a melty blob bracketed between her and the sunlight. “Your hair’s a bit short for Marianne’s do, but I think I can get a little creative…”

He basked for a bit, letting time slip past him as Hilda’s deft fingers worked his hair into braids. The worst part about his longer hair was that sometimes strands fell in his face. He was just barely strong enough to brush it away if he was rested, but it was a pain. On the other hand, his friends weren’t letting him stay on his own. Which meant there was always someone nearby to push it out of his eyes for him.

He really loved his friends.

“Have you ever weaved flowers into a braid crown?”

Hilda snickered a little. “A few times. Why, does our manly Leaderman want some flowers in his hair?”

“Don’t put flowers in my hair.” Though if she pushed it, he’d allow it. She could probably dress him up in a frilly pink dress and he wouldn’t mind. “Could you teach me?” He wiggled his weak fingers. “Not now, I guess. But when I’m stronger?”

“Of course. I bet that’d be good physical therapy to help your dexterity recover. Not what I expected from you though. What brought this on?”

He smiled at the old memory dancing behind his eyes. “A long time ago, my little sister wanted flowers in her hair. I tried my best to get them to stay but I couldn’t figure it out. My older sister always had these flowers woven into her hair. She was pretty obnoxious about it. I couldn’t go ask her though, because she never would’ve let me live it down. I don’t think I ever figured it out…” He could picture the pile of crumpled violets perfectly. Stars, he spent _hours_ trying to get it right.

“I didn’t know you had any sisters.” Hilda stopped braiding his hair. “Did you tell them about, er, almost dying?”

“I sent a message to my parents.” He needed to get another message to them. He didn’t know how. Getting a message across the border was difficult even back before he dismissed his old contacts.

“Your family must’ve been relieved to get the message that you’re okay.” He stomped down the prickle of guilt by focusing on the pleasant sensations around him instead. “Knowing you, you probably didn’t tell them you were dying until the last minute.” She resumed braiding his hair. “Can I ask about your siblings? I’m curious.”

Anything to not think about the guilt. “There were a lot of us. There’s my brother, and… and my other brother, and… a sister… and…”

Hilda snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Are you falling asleep on me?”

“No, uh… I… can’t seem to…”

“Are you having more confusion? I thought that was supposed to stop! Want me to get Marianne or Flayn?”

“No, I… I just can’t seem to remember how many of us there were.”

“You’ve been toasting in the sun for a while now. Don’t want to spike your temperature and fry that big brain of yours. Let’s get you back to bed. You must be tired.”

“No, no more than usual. I… nevermind. It’s not important. Can’t we stay out here a bit longer?” He sighed for dramatic effect. “I’ve missed sunshine.”

Hilda didn’t even last five seconds. “Okay, okay. Just a _little_ bit longer! No need to sound so sad, you know I hate it when you do that.”

“Thanks Hilda. You’re too good to me.”

“And don’t forget it!”

They chatted back and forth about nothing for a time. He refrained from asking about Shambhala. Hilda wouldn’t want to think about it. This was a break for her as much as for him. He steered clear of politics. She undid and redid his braid multiple times. There was _no way_ he was getting his hair cut.

There was something gnawing at the back of his brain. He chalked it up to his upcoming meal. It felt important though. 

“Hey Hilda… how’s the border?”

“With Almyra? Same as before.”

“Is Holst still talking to Nader?”

“I think so. I can ask him if you want.”

He snickered. “It’s a little ironic. General Holst, staunch defender of the border, is my best bet to get something past the throat.” A cloud passed over the sun. He picked at the blanket pooled around his lap. Hilda knew what he wanted without so much as a word, pulling up the blanket and wrapping them both together. Hilda was enough to make him warm, but he didn’t want the extra goodness of sunlight-warmth escaping his bones so quickly. “I sent my parents my goodbye. Nothing else.”

Hilda tensed. “Wait, they don’t know you’re recovering?”

“I can’t even hold a quill. When would I have time to sneak a letter across the border?”

“From what little you’ve told me of your family, you’re mom’s going to kill you when she finds out.”

“I’m kinda surprised she hasn’t carved a warpath to come retrieve my body.” Literally. It _was_ odd that they’d done nothing over his ‘death.’

“Dummy,” Hilda chided him softly. “Your family must be worried sick about you. I’ll send a letter to Holst and see if he can get a hold of Nader. Your folks and siblings must be grieving…”

“Siblings? I don’t have any siblings.” He tilted his head enough to frown at her. “I’m an only child.”

“Claude, you just got done telling me about your little sister, and all your other siblings.”

He… did do that, yes. He _was_ his parent’s only child. But then, where did Cichol fit in…? Oh _Stars damn him._ "Right. So, funny story…"

* * *

In a few days they were to march for Shambhala. The Deer kept going back and forth on whether he should be allowed to go or not. There was _no way_ he was missing out on the mythical city. He was physically stable enough, but some of them were still upset about his little trip with Begalta.

Begalta wanted to speak with Rhea.

He couldn’t blame her. Rhea wasn’t doing well. That was putting it lightly, according to Seteth. He didn’t know the details. Rhea was well enough to join their upcoming march, but by that metric so was he. Unlike him, Rhea didn’t have a magic rock of Feel Goodness (or a circle of snuggleable friends).

Begalta wanted closure with Rhea in case the worst happened. Claude was feeling oddly mixed. Without Begalta’s influence, he wouldn’t care. In fact, for Fódlan’s overall future, things would be better with Rhea out of the picture. Death was a very efficient way to get someone out of the picture… Then again, considering Begalta, maybe not. Dragons and death seemed to have a strange relationship.

The hard truth that he was coming to realize was that he didn’t want Rhea dead. It was the same subconscious way that he looked towards Seteth as his weird pseudo-younger brother, despite the fact that Seteth was in fact many centuries older than him, or Flayn/Cethleann being his friend/niece.

There was a whole family of ghosts in his head. Even since their ‘merge’, Begalta’s memories were returning stronger. Her memories were affecting her _and_ him. She wasn’t the same as she’d once been and she never would be. There was no way she would remember everything. Bits and pieces were falling through the cracks though, and he was finding it hard to parse through them all.

Where Begalta’s memory painted a hazy picture, Cichol helped fill them in. Cichol told them a list of names. Begalta recognized none of them. 

Sothis ‘created’(birthed?) her children in clusters. A few every couple of centuries or so (which, in his head didn’t feel like a lot of time, despite knowing it very much was).

Even without Cichol’s help he had names for some of them. Macuil was among the oldest clutch. There were more born with him, none with names he knew. He couldn’t remember their names, but some crests he did (and more he didn’t). He recognized the lost crest of Noa. That was his Begalta’s older sister who was insufferable about flowers.

Begalta was born in a middle clutch with Cichol. There was another brother and sister — their crests being Fraldarius and the lost Chevalier. In fact, Chevalier’s crest was on Begalta’s sword. It ached to realize the two of them had been close. Begalta still couldn’t remember his name.

Seiros was strange in the sense that she was ‘born’ an only child. She was the last of mother/Sothis’ creations/children. By being an ‘only child’, it made her special in a way Begalta couldn’t remember the exact details of.

Convincing his friends to let him merge with Begalta a second time was difficult. He didn’t _need_ their permission, but he owed it to them all. In the end, they let him do it. He promised to be careful (and received many eyerolls). Hilda informed him that if this cause him another 'fit' his archery rights would be revoked. It was an excellent incentive to be on his best behavior.

Merging for a second time was strange but much easier than the first. It took them some time to collect their bearings. Begalta had ‘stabilized’ somewhat while they were separate. She’d had time to process things, though it wasn’t easy to think when locked away in her creststone.

Together, with Cichol by their side, they visited Seiros.

“Rhea?” Cichol knocked on Seiros’ door. Claude’s lips twisted at the reminder of where he spent the worst of his sickness. “Might I speak to you?”

“Come in,” Seiros’ quiet voice called. Entering, it was hard to look at her. To think she would march with them in a few days… “Oh. Hello Claude. I suppose you seek more answers. I beg more time from you.”

“That’s not why I’m here. I… don’t know how to say this elegantly.” Begalta pulled out her heart, presenting it to Seiros. 

Seiros gasped. “That is Failnaught’s creststone.” Her lips fell into a hard line. “Explain yourself.”

There were a great many thoughts bubbling through their head. Far too many. Words failed them completely.

“Perhaps we should take a seat.” Cichol was by their side, guiding them to a chair. They were grateful. Standing was still somewhat distracting.

“Seteth, what is the meaning of this?”

“Peace, Rhea. Why don’t you prepare some tea? We have much to speak about.”

Seiros frowned.

“Chamomile,” she murmured. Seiros used to like chamomile, once. Cichol liked… ginger tea? Maybe? Claude would need to ask him later to double check. “Do you still like chamomile?”

Rhea’s frown only increased. “Indeed I do. Allow me a moment to prepare some.”

While Rhea was out of the room, Claude allowed himself to hang his head. “Stars, this is difficult.” With Begalta stuffed into his head, his ability to think quickly was already crippled. Add onto the fact that he felt like an unwelcome addition to the world’s most awkward family reunion. Begalta didn’t feel much better given the fact that Seiros didn’t recognize her (not that she expected it). “What if she doesn’t believe us?”

“We will see that she does,” Cichol assured them.

They allowed their head to rest against Cichol’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

They sat up straight as Seiros returned. They lost a snatch of time again. Their tea was already poured for them, Seiros settling into her chair. 

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” they began. “I didn’t mean to alarm you by showing you my — _the_ crest stone. Explaining this is difficult.” He set her heart on the table. “Go ahead, look it over. I want to hear your thoughts on it.”

Seiros looked between them and Cichol. She collected the silvery, dull heart in her hand. “It is changed. Did… what was it you called them again? ‘Those who slither in the dark’? Did they get their hands on this?”

“You can just say Agarthans. Much less of a mouthful.”

Both Seiros and Cichol stiffened.

“Yes, I know about them. Somewhat. Oh, your question. No, those fiends haven’t touched it for a very long time. I need to know, Se— _Rhea._ Do you know what resides within a creststone?”

“Seteth, what have you been telling him?”

Claude huffed. “If you want to blame anyone, blame Macuil. He’s the one that so readily spilled secrets.”

Seiros gaped at him. “As in Saint Macuil? Scripture says—”

“Scripture says whatever you want it to say. Now _answer me, Seiros._ Where does a Nabatean’s soul go when they die?” She fought to keep her temper. Emotions were volatile.

Seiros inhaled sharply. “Claude, I am uncertain what you are getting at. You must be mis—”

“Stars, you still cling to secrets? Fine!” She snatched up her heart. “When I died, my soul was trapped in here! For a thousand years my corpse has been used to kill! I lost everything! Death would have been a mercy! Why would you _give away_ our corpses to the children of those who slew us?!” Cichol placed a hand on their arm. They took a deep breath. “I’m not here to yell at you, sister. But I _must_ know: were you aware?”

“What are you saying…?” Seiros was pale as bone. 

Starlight helped her take a calming breath. _In, and out._ “Regardless if you knew or not, it’s good to see you again Seiros. I don’t look the same. I’m _not_ the same at all. I’m still… recovering. I’m not the Begalta that you knew, but I’m Begalta nonetheless.”

“It’s true,” Cichol backed her up.

Seiros brought a shaking hand to their cheek. “You are… Begalta?”

 _Hell, Claude felt awkward._ They nodded. “It’s me, sister.”

Seiros’ lips parted. She twisted a too-wide smile. _Desperate._ She stood and walked around the table, taking their hand in her shaking ones. “I knew it… I knew it was possible…”

She flinched. “You _knew?!_ Stop smiling, explain yourself!” 

Seiros wrapped them in a hug. “Oh, dear Begalta. It’s been so long. You _must_ tell me how this came to pass!” She withdrew, smile easing into something gentle. “We can do it for the others too. We can bring everyone back. It will be just like how it once was.”

Words failed them. They could only stare at Rhea. She _couldn’t_ be saying what it sounded like.

“Rhea?”

“Seteth, this is such joyous news. Please, Begalta, tell me everything. Here I have spent centuries trying to bring back Mother, yet you have managed to come back all on your own. How did you do it?”

“M-mother?” His tongue was heavy. His mind struggled to put everything together. Begalta knew who ‘mother’ was. “What did you do to…” _to Teach._

Rhea palmed the silver heart. “I thought this was impossible. How have you maintained yourself within a mortal vessel without this? None of my own attempts yielded anything of substance, not until I combined Her heart with the vessel. _Oh,_ this is such wonderful news.”

“St-stop, I don’t…”

“However did you overwhelm your vessel? I assumed dislodging a present spirit would be impossible without killing the vessel first. I am delighted to be wrong. A shame about Claude. He was a bright young man. But his body is an excellent specimen.”

He recoiled, falling out of his chair. Rhea was too close. He didn’t know if the horror threatening to overwhelm them was his or Begalta’s.

“Rhea!” Cichol stood to shield them from Rhea. “Explain yourself! You aren’t making sense!”

“Seteth, be calm. All is well. Begalta, whatever is the matter? Do not look at me so.” She extended a hand to help them up.

Begalta wanted to run. Claude did too. But this was the perfect opportunity to know more. He swallowed thickly and threw together a weak smile. Begalta wasn’t recovered enough to lie well, but Claude lived and breathed lies. “Apologies, sister. I’m still adjusting to having a physical body and mind again. It is overwhelming at times.” He pushed himself up, unwilling to force themself to take her hand. “I would like to hear more about mother.”

Cichol boggled him like he lost his mind. While Rhea’s back was turned returning to her seat, Claude mouthed _‘for Teach’_ to him. Cichol jerked a faint nod.

Rhea nodded. “Of course.”

Talking with Rhea was hard. Begalta was horrified (he was too, but he knew how to compartmentalize). Rhea told them everything. About her experiments on over a dozen attempts to resurrect Sothis, details of her successes and failures. Teach had Sothis’ creststone _inside of them._

“Mother would be able to correct everything. I knew if I could bring back Mother, she could fix everything else.” Rhea’s smile finally fell. “And yet… Mother merely granted the vessel Her power and left. I thought the hope of restoring our people was lost.” Rhea cupped his chin. “And yet here you are. All on your own power.”

 _‘You aren’t my sister,’_ she wanted to say. _‘I would never trade my life for Starlight’s. You’re a monster.’_

“Begalta?”

He shook his head. “Apologies. Lost in my head again. Did you say something?”

“I asked about how you transitioned from the creststone into a mortal vessel. We must replicate—”

“No.”

Rhea tilted her head. “No? I see. Was the cost too great? Whatever it takes, we can work around it. There are those among my people who will willingly give their bodies for the Goddess and her children. Tell me how you stabilized your transition to prevent a transformation, and—”

 _“Rhea,”_ Seteth whispered, finally speaking up. “You’re speaking of sacrificing your followers.”

“A willing sacrifice. Do not look at me so, Seteth. It is all for the Goddess. All for Mother.”

Claude clamped a hand on Seteth’s arm, willing the man to be silent. He needed to know more. _Teach_ needed this information. “What of… mother’s vessel?” It grated to call Teach a _vessel._ “Did you ask them? Were they willing?”

Rhea took up her tea, eyes lingering in her reflection. Could Rhea see the monster that Begalta did? The cup shook in her hands, but not a drop of tea spilled. “They were born without a soul, without a heartbeat. They were stillborn, life granted only through Mother’s heart. By that alone they owed their life to the Goddess. There should have been nothing to replace. It was the perfect vessel, free for Mother to inhabit. But… I suppose it was not as soulless as I originally assumed.” Rhea set down her cup without so much as taking a sip. She reached out to thumb his cheek. He forced himself not to recoil. “What of Claude? I don’t see one such as him giving away his life. How difficult was it to overtake him?”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” she snapped. “Don’t speak of a sacrifice you don’t understand!”

“Apologies. Were you close with him?”

He leaned away from Rhea. _Focus._ He needed to focus. “Not important.” _He was important though._ He appreciated the sentiment, but he was trying to focus. As he scrambled to keep them steady, Begalta continued. _She needed to know this._ “Why didn’t you fight for us?”

“I did. I slew the wicked Nemesis. I destroyed his kingdom, toppled his generals.”

“And let our souls rot in the hands of others.” Begalta slammed a fist onto the table. “Why didn't you fight for us?! I don’t give a damn about _vengeance._ Death would have been a mercy for what I went through — what we _all_ went through. What the others are _still_ going through! But you encouraged the humans! _Why?”_

Rhea’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “It was for the sake of everyone. When Mother returned, she would bring life back to all. I couldn’t let your creststones be destroyed. I protected you all. Creststones are sacred, no human would dare tamper with—”

“You couldn’t let go.” She stood, chair skidding behind her. “That’s it, isn’t it? You never moved on. You never let anyone else move on either.”

“Don’t be upset, Begalta. You live again. The others can too! Together, we can bring them all back…” Rhea looked disgustingly hopeful. Disgustingly desperate. “Without Mother, I thought hope was lost. But you can do it, sister. Together, our family can be whole again.”

It couldn’t be replicated. Her circumstance was just as cosmically implausible as Starlight’s. Her soul could only reside in him due to their mixed blood and his own King’s Mark blessing filtered into her own soul. Even if it _could_ be replicated, they wouldn’t tell Rhea. “It can’t be done.”

“It can. I’ve heard the stories. It was you, Begalta, who reverted a demonic beast back into man. I’m certain the process can be repeated, altered. I’ve seen to that man. His mind is gone, replaced with the fragments of that artificial heart the wicked ones used. All we must do is trigger a transformation, and when you reverse it, the soul of our siblings will live again.” Rhea clasped her hands together, leaning forward. “Won’t you do it, for our family?”

Their head shook back and forth. _Was that true?_ He’d gotten no updates about the man. He knew Lysithea and Linhardt were looking into his condition and that was all. _No._ Rhea was mistaken. Even if she wasn’t, to thrust the souls of her brethren back into a mortal body would be disastrous at best. She had five years to adjust to thought and life and it was _still_ difficult.

And that was only _if_ they could do it. Which they both highly, highly doubted.

Cichol was next to her. They had spaced out again. “I believe Begalta is tired. You must rest too, Rhea.”

Rhea raised her teacup and took a long, shaking sip. Under her eyes were thick bags. Her hair was a mess of tangles. Her hands trembled. Her cheeks, while not as defined as his, were sunken with malnourishment.

She looked nothing like the _Archbishop Rhea_ of his academy days. She looked nothing like… 

  
  


_“I would much prefer Mother do my hair.”_

_She clucked her tongue. “Stay still. Mother’s busy. Do you want these violets in your hair or not?”_

_Seiros crossed her arms. She couldn’t see her face, but the pout was obvious. “You aren’t even doing them right. It’s been forever and you aren’t done yet!”_

_The flower she was trying to weave flopped onto the ground. “Pick a better flower next time. These stems are too short. Like, try lilies or something.” She resisted the urge to crush the stupid flower. She couldn’t get it right! Their sister made it look so easy._

_“I want the violets though!”_

_She gave up, ruffling the failed braids away. Seiros squawked. “You’re a spoiled mama’s girl.”_

_Seiros whirled. She_ _was pouting alright, chubby cheeks and all. “Am not. You’re just jealous, ‘cause I’m mama’s favorite!”_

_“You’re her youngest, of course you’re her favorite.”_

_“I’m gonna be mama’s right hand when I’m big, she says so! Then I’ll mess up_ your _hair!” She stuck out her tongue. “I’ll be nice. Not like_ you! _I’ll only mess up your hair a little, ‘cause it’s my res-ponds-abity. Mama says so.”_

_“Welp, in that case.” She snagged Seiros in a headlock and gave her a noogie, wrestling with her on the ground._

_“I’m gonna tell mama!”_

_“Heh, but if you tattle, I won’t show you where the prettiest flowers are in the forest.”_

_“You promised though! You said we could go! Mama won’t let me go!”_

_“Then you better not tell mama~!” She let go of Seiros in order to tickle her sides. The little girl squealed. “If you tattle on me, I’ll tell mama that you sneak out with me.” It was an empty threat given Mother_ had _to know they both snuck out time to time. Seiros didn’t need to know that though._

_“You can’t!” Seiros squealed between laughs._

_“Begalta. Are you torturing Seiros again?”_

_“No!”_

_Macuil settled down between her and Seiros. Seiros hid behind him. He gave her the kind of look only a big brother could. “You’re late. We’ve been waiting for you to show up for half an hour._

_“Gah! I forgot!” She jolted upright. “Blame Seiros, she was distracting me!”_

_“Nuh-uh! It’s not my fault Begalta’s late! She’s always late!” Which was a lie, she was only_ usually _late. “What’re you guys doing? Can I do it too? Please?”_

_“You’re too tiny. Maybe when you’re older, small-stuff.”_

_Seiros puffed up her cheeks and looked angry in the way only a chipmunk could. “I’m not tiny! Macuil! Begalta’s being mean!”_

_Macuil sighed. “Bother mom, not me.” He caught her eye and mouthed_ “kids.” _He loved Seiros like the rest of them, but he didn’t have much patience for her. “We’re all waiting on you, Begalta. If it weren’t for the fact that only you and Cichol know where the cave is at, we would’ve left you behind.”_

_“Aww, Cichol didn’t spill my secret? What a swell guy.”_

_“He said you threatened to shave off his eyebrows if he went without you.”_

_“Indech already shaved off his hair. He’ll match if he gets rid of his eyebrows!”_

_Macuil just stared at her with that ‘are you done yet’ look. Such a stick in the mud._

_“Fine, let’s go. Don’t forget, in return for me showing you my secret spot, you owe me!” She glanced down at the pile of violets. “I’ve got an idea for a prank…”_

_“I’m coming too!”_

_“No you aren’t Seiros!”_

“…not, under any circumstances. Both of you should be resting.”

“Brother?”

Cichol turned to them, lines creasing his forehead. He knelt down beside her. They were sitting on the floor. “How do you feel?”

“I lost more time, didn’t I.”

Cichol nodded. “It’s been about ten minutes.”

“I see the process has not been perfect,” Seiros murmured. “Dear, you should rest here.”

“The… violets. With Macuil. And… your hair. I remember it. You were a brat when you were little.”

Seiros showed no offense. A bright smile lit up her face. “Yes, I had much growing to do then. How much do you recall? Perhaps we can trigger more memories. Why, we could have our meals together, reminisce over the past. Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

A part of her wanted to say yes. She wanted to remember that little girl. She wanted to understand how little bratty Seiros could be the same person as this Rhea. “I think it would be best for us both to rest.”

Rhea’s shoulders slumped, her smile dwindling. “I see. Very well. Another time. It brings me so much joy to speak with you again, dear sister. I have missed you.” 

They stumbled out of her room with Cichol by their side. They all but collapsed against him. _How did Seiros change so much? What went wrong? How could she have done what she did to Teach?_ She couldn’t get herself to ask Cichol anything. She clung to him. At least they finally got some answers out of Rhea.

“I swear to you,” Cichol whispered, “I knew none of that. I didn’t know what she was doing. Claude, Begalta, I swear it.”

“Obviously. You’re white as a sheet.” She sighed. “I need to head back and eat. After, we can tell Teach about—”

“I’ll tell them. You need to rest.”

He glared at Cichol. The man was _right,_ but that didn’t mean he liked it. “One of these days, I’m going to shave off your eyebrows.”

* * *

“Nice shot, Claude!”

“I’ve still got it.” He nocked another arrow and split his last one through the center. He wasn’t fully back up to snuff, but he was getting there. Just in time too, because they marched tomorrow. He flourished a bow. “What do you think? Am I good, or am I great?”

“I think you’re great.” Leonie pulled him into a side hug. He snuggled into her side, bow dropping from his hands.

“Just me, or my aim?” She was really doting on him today. All of the Deer were. Their march on Shambhala was tomorrow. As always he lapped up their affection like a starved puppy.

“Eh, your aim’s decent.”

“Hey!” He did his best to stay focused and serious (his dopey smile probably wasn’t helping him in that regard). “So, decent enough to pass munster?”

Ignatz cleared his throat. “It’s borderline.”

“A+ at _least.”_

“Claude, we’re invading an ancient civilization that, _in your words,_ will be unlike any force we’ve fought. Anything below _God-like_ is borderline.” Leonie’s indulging smile fell. “We’re worried. None of us want to see you hurt more.”

“Oh come on. On the battlefield I'm hardly in any danger. I’m not using my crest as a crutch here, but in case you forgot I literally heal all my wounds. Marianne says I’ve got enough leeway now for a good fight.” He patted his stomach, which was almost flat.

Leonie just fixed him with a _look_ and pinched his skinny arm. He counteracted her look by burying his face into her shoulder. She couldn’t guilt him if he couldn’t see her!

“We’re still discussing it. After all, you aren’t bringing your ghost-buddy with you.” It was good that Begalta wasn’t with him. She was still salty about that fact. Despite how far she’d come, seeing the dark place that she was butchered in was going to incapacitate both of them. He would make do with only his dragonstone.

“Ugh. You guys are going to replace me with Edelgard at this rate.”

“The professor—”

He waited for Ignatz to finish. He peeked up. “Ignatz?” Ignatz’s mouth was still open, frozen in place. He shifted against Leonie, but her arms were unmoving. _Physically unmoving._

He ducked out of Leonie’s grip and snatched up his bow. 

A man in a crow mask ghosted into the training grounds. He fired off a shot, and then his limbs froze in a feat of magic. Edelgard’s warning swept through his head. _“If they learn of your abilities, they’ll stop at nothing to have you in their clutches. You’ve already caught their interest with your ‘miracles.’”_

An unnatural fatigue swept over him. As he clung to consciousness, a man snatched his arm and the world swirled with purple warp magic.

His world went black before he could see where they took him.


	39. Stolen Starlight

Edelgard kept her head low, tugging her cap further down to hide her eyes. Her ability to march — and _live_ — was dependent on her anonymity. Specifically from Rhea. She’d thought the former archbishop was broken after her time in Enbarr. 

“We will destroy those wretched creatures,” Rhea declared, not for the first time. “They will pay for what they’ve done.”

“Yeah, uh-huh. ‘Kill them’ isn’t a foolproof plan.” Hilda, also not for the first time, replied. “Ugh. This is supposed to be Claude’s job, he’s the plan guy!”

The commoner with the Lance of Ruin — Leonie? — smashed the butt of her lance into the dirt. “We were helpless while they took him. I’m going to make them pay.”

Linhardt, the traitor, lazily waved his hand through the air. “What happened, happened. The paralysis spell they used was no weak spell. You sounded the alarm as soon as you could. You got me soon enough that I could track their warp spell.”

The commoner with thick round glasses — Ignatz? — spoke up. “Am I the only one who finds it suspicious that they took Claude where they know we’re marching to? Why not take him somewhere on the other side of the continent? We would be forced to split our forces, or delay our attack on Shambhala.”

“Perhaps they are confident we pose no threat. With what we know about them…” the blue-haired healer trailed off.

Byleth nudged Seteth, jerking their head to Rhea. Seteth nodded and cleared his throat. “Rhea. You must rest. The more you rest now, the more strength you will have for the fight.” The two went back and forth for a time before Byleth added their support for Seteth’s idea. Rhea nodded, the fight draining out of her posture. She allowed Seteth to pull her away.

As soon as the former archbishop was gone, Byleth waved at Edelgard to march by their side. Dedue, her ever present shadow, followed. “Your thoughts?”

“On if this is a trap?” She eyed the former golden Deer flanking her. “Possible, but I doubt it. It’s more likely Those who Slither in the Dark aren’t aware of your assault.”

“We haven’t exactly been quiet about rallying the troops for ‘one last fight’. They must have spies, right?” Ignatz asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. They are arrogant. With the war’s end, they’ve likely withdrawn to return to planning Fódlan’s doom. Or perhaps they know and simply don’t consider you a threat.”

“Ugh. Right, that stupid _‘endless, unkillable army’_ they might have,” Hilda muttered into her palm. “How true is that? _Please_ tell me that’s not true.”

She rubbed her shoulder, sleeve empty of an arm. “Doubtful. If they had such a force, why subsist in the shadows? They have great magic, but their numbers are few.” Just _where_ were they getting this intel from anyways?

“Quite a relief,” Lorenz said. “Claude’s tale of immortal subterranean dwellers must be false as well.”

_How_ did he know that? “No, that’s correct.”

The former Golden Deer went silent.

Byleth clasped her shoulder. “We need whatever you can tell us. Layout of their base, estimate of numbers, environmental hazards we may face.”

She pressed her lips thin. “That’s asking quite a lot.” She didn’t know much. Claude, _somehow,_ had been far better informed than her. Hubert was the one with the real plans and secret intel. Even Hubert, between the two of them, had precious little information. Thales made sure she was kept in the dark. She’d never been to Shambhala.

Lysithea scoffed. “Now isn’t the time to be petty. We both want the enemy destroyed. After all, that’s why you’re here. To get your revenge.”

She nodded. Lysithea was mostly correct. She wanted to slice Thales’ head off personally. But she also _needed_ to know… 

“Well? Out with it!” Leonie snapped, brandishing her relic. “That was the deal. You tell us everything you know and you get to come along. Well, you’re along. Now _spill.”_

“Yes, that was our deal. Thales — who acted as my uncle — is arrogant, dismissive of humanity. I find it likely he will underestimate this attack.”

“How many forces should we expect?” Byleth asked.

Despite the half-decade since being their student, it still stung to disappoint them. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Estimation?”

She shook her head. “I was kept in the dark.”

“Do you know anything?” Leonie snapped. “What were your plans after you ‘won’ your war, huh?”

“Hubert planned most of it,” she admitted. They couldn’t turn around and send her back to Garreg Mach now. “I was focused on the war I was fighting, not a future war. Hubert’s dead now, so I can’t ask him.” _And didn’t that sting._

“We gave him more than enough chances to surrender,” Hilda muttered. “Just _great._ So we brought a dead weight and we’re _still_ walking into this place blind! _Perfect!”_

Not for the first time, she considered her options. The former Golden Deer didn’t consider her much of a threat. She could easily escape in the upcoming chaos. There were people who would follow her lead back in Adrestia. Her rebellion would be a shaky one with her strength so weakened. Against Claude and his forces, she stood no chance.

_But without Claude…_

“Edelgard.” She snapped to Byleth’s voice. Steel glimmered at her. She tensed, preparing to cut and run. _They knew._ How did Byleth _always_ know?! Byleth bobbed the sword, raising a single eyebrow. “Do you want it or not?”

_Oh._ Byelth held the hilt towards her. “You’re arming me?”

“Professor! I object!”

“Noted.” They again offered the hilt. “I expect you to hold your own.”

She slowly took the blade, waiting for the trap to spring. “I no longer have my dominant arm.”

“You’re still no slouch.” Byleth shrugged. “I haven’t forgotten.”

She ducked her head. “You put too much faith in me.”

“Yeah professor, remember who we just _ended a war with?”_

“Do not mistake me.” Byleth’s eyes were sharp as ever. “Abuse my trust and it will be your last regret. And you _will_ regret it. Do not test me, Edelgard.”

She gulped. “Of course not, my teacher.”

The former Golden Deer muttered among themselves. Behind her, Dedue was still silent. The Deer might underestimate her but Dedue did _not._ One step out of line and she knew her silent guard would cleave her head from her neck. She didn’t understand why Dedue had let her live for so long. It was probably Byleth’s doing. 

* * *

The metal beneath Hilda’s feet was impossibly black. Darker than a moonless sky, darker than darkness itself. A void. The fact that she could stand on it at all was surreal. The black was so dark it seemed to suck away any light it touched. Perhaps it was the contrast to the black, but the blue lights that lit the area were equally unreal. She’d never seen blue that was quite so… blue. So bright. It was nothing like the sky, nothing like any blue she’d ever seen. It was otherworldly. Unnatural.

She wished she was in the professor’s group. She _hated_ splitting up. Rhea wasn’t a comforting presence like the professor. The former archbishop oscillated between a slow, stumbling gait and a furious march. 

She tightened her grip on her axe. The pitch-black tunnel was eating at her nerves. She’d been banking on Claude’s rambling stories to all be nothing but fairytales. 

_“Once was there a prosperous ruler. The land held bounty and beauty, shared by all. Some of the people grew restless, knowing they could do so much more. Their ruler forbade them from their toils. So in secret they pooled their knowledge and expanded it. They grew to outstrip the power of their lord. When their ruler found what they had done, against their orders, they were banished. The people were bitter, but left. They left to found their own city, one where they could toil their craft as endlessly as they pleased. To remain hidden, they built their settlement under the earth. They toiled and toiled. They ended aging so they could toil longer. They ended sickness so they could toil longer. And so still they toil on their wondrous city, buried under the earth.”_

Was this the result of that story? Mechanisms beyond mortal comprehension? Magics able to warp all known laws? Claude had speculated on what Shambhala might look like. A sprawling metropolis built into caverns walls, lined with gold and lit with magic fire. A great conclave resting in a mythical realm, lit by skylight and bracketed by clouds. An endless realm of impossible architecture and wealth, covered in moss and forest. A land engulfed in constant fire that never burned. A grotto in which glowing mushrooms and vibrant stalactites were crafted into brilliant dwellings. A cityscape stretching forever, the ceiling of their underground dwelling enchanted into a brilliant blue sky. According to him, his legends claimed the mythical city might even be in an ethereal plane or some otherworldly dimension.

Wherever they were, it didn’t feel like Fódlan. If Claude managed to get so much right, what about the various ‘prophecies’ he recited?

_“At the end of a great empire, barbarians will have conquered the land. With little else to conquer, they set their sights on legend. From below the earth shall rise Shambhala, last hope of true humanity. The wicked barbarians shall strike at the great city, breaking the seal. From the broken gates shall pour an endless tide to vanquish all impurities upon the land. With their wealth and knowledge shall come a new golden age of humanity, the war-torn lands reforged anew.”_

Fighting off an endless army sounded like a lot of work. She just wanted to get Claude back. He better be okay.

“Intruders!”

There was no more time to worry. She charged forward and silenced the masked mage with her axe. From there, battle exploded. She ducked and rolled under a shimmering black wave of magic, pressing forward to lop off another head. 

“You will return what you have stolen!” Rhea shouted, already splattered in blood as she ran another mage through. 

“Lady Rhea! Watch out!” 

Rhea whirled. Without even looking, she snatched the face of an assassin. With her bare hand, she _crunched_ the man’s face, white light of nosferatu engulfing his dying body. She tossed the corpse at her feet, striding forward. “Let nothing stop us. Destroy them all!” Unhinged as the order was, it lined up with what Hilda was already doing. Five years of captivity apparently was not a good influence on the former archbishop’s sanity. 

Great demonic beast… suits of armor… _big things_ arose to block their way. She _really_ hoped they weren’t Claude’s ‘endless, immortal army’ because slaying just _one_ left her sweaty (and slightly injured).

“Look! There’s some sort of facility!” Lysithea shouted, pointing to a ‘building’ of sorts.

“There’s another one too!” Ignatz pointed in the opposite direction. 

“Lysithea, Lorenz, I’ll distract this _thing!”_ She grunted under the force of the giant suit’s blow, Friekugle shuddering in her grip. “Get over to that facility, look for Claude! Ignatz, Marianne, check the other one!”

Rhea, as unhinged as she was, was a blessing straight from the Goddess on the battlefield. She was a terrifyingly efficient killing machine. Providing she wasn’t about to _completely_ lose it and start attacking her allies, at least. 

The beast swung its arm in too wide of a swipe for Hilda to dodge. Her brief second of freefall reminded her why she hated flying (and falling). She prepared to roll, eyeing the void-like ground. She couldn’t tell how far away it w— 

She hit the ground faster than she expected, striking her side hard. She spat out a glob of blood and stood just in time to be hit by a lightning strike from one of the odd devices near the biggest ‘building’. “Seteth!” she waved the man down, pointing at the beast turning to focus on Lysithea and Lorenz, “distract it!” She was too far away and _owie,_ she needed to catch her breath.

His spear glimmered with silver, a sharp reminder of Claude. Seteth dove down onto the beast, rupturing one of the pale blue orbs on its shoulder. The rest of the lights on its arm faded, weapon falling from its grasp. 

“They can be disarmed!” Hilda cast her eye out across the plaza they were in, spotting the professor’s team on the other side. “Aim for the blue spots! They’re weak points!” she shouted as loud as possible. 

She turned back to her own fight just in time to watch Seteth get knocked from his mount by the suit’s shield. _Even without a sword, they’re still strong!_ She rushed forward and caught Seteth before he hit the ground.

“Excellent catch,” he grunted.

“Good on you for keeping your weapon.” He would’ve been in trouble if he’d dropped his spear. She set him on his feet. “No time to slack, ugh.” Warm healing of Flayn’s fortify washed over her. 

Seteth spared her a nod as his eyes scanned the battle. “No _reason_ to slack now either. Distract it for but a moment and I will strike at the eye in it’s chest.”

“Ugh, fine! So much work!” She charged at the suit, Freikugle pulsing with excitement. She did her best to ignore its pulsing. As soon as all the stupid fighting was over, she was never touching the haunted axe ever again. Working as a pair, her and Seteth took down the suit. She had no time to rest, an errant spell nearly skewering her if not for Seteth’s well-timed warning. 

Another giant suit of armor whirred to life, slow stomps signalling it’s arrival. “Oh come on! How many of these things are there?!”

The suit’s giant sword rose up. She wasn’t sure how many more strikes her arms could take! Just as she braced herself, all the blue lights in the creature faded. It slumped to the ground, dead? A few moments later and the lightning-rods powered down too.

“Whew! High-five!” Seteth did not give her a high-five.

“We didn’t find Claude,” Lorenz reported to her. Ignatz reported the same thing.

They all turned to the looming structure at the center of the plaza. “Think they’re keeping him in there? Maybe I’ve just been around Claude too often, but doesn’t that seem kinda… obvious?”

“Whether Claude is there or not, I suspect their leader is within.” Seteth wasted no time charging forward.

“Hey! Wait up!” She burst into the strange structure just behind Seteth, the other deer at her heels.

“More beasts,” the ringleader — Thales? — drawled. “Nothing but animals performing tricks for their false Goddess.” With a wave of his hand, Hilda felt her limbs grow weak. She could barely hold onto her weapon. Behind her came the clatter of the other Deer’s weapons. “This was the best you could do, my creation?”

“I’ll kill you,” Edelgard hissed, crumpled on the floor, Thales’ foot on her back. He ground his heel against her. 

“How—?!” How did Edelgard get ahead of them? Where was Dedue? Where was her sword, why was she disarmed? Damn, she knew trusting the former emperor was a bad idea!

Thales chuckled. “My, my. Nabateans, the Fell Star itself, and even my old pet project. All ripe for the slaughter on my very doorstep.”

“Where’s Claude?” Hilda shouted.

“Hm? Oh, the shell of that Manakete… what a find, that one.” Thales waved his hand to the side. “Look upon its corpse and despair, mortals.” Unwillingly, she took her eyes off of the enemy. 

“Claude!” She stumbled forward, her limbs unnaturally heavy. “You bastard!” Claude lay unmoving. His eyes were open. There was no green glow within them.

“Wretched Agarthan!” Rhea screeched behind her, bursting into the room with the professor by her side. “Return what you have stolen!” Her steps stuttered, wide eyes fixed on Claude. “No. _No!”_

“You!” Dark magic gathered at Thale’s fingertips. “I’ll add your corpse to the rest of your kin!” He swung a wave of magic, throwing Rhea backwards. Hilda continued to limp forward, the magic weakening her beginning to fade. “Fools!” There was a _whoosh_ of magic. A vivid purple barrier sprang up in a large dome around him. At his feet within the dome, a giant sigil began to glow. “If I must bring this place down on our heads, so be it!”

Rhea crashed into the barrier, sparks flashing around her blade. “Wretch! What have you done to her?!”

Hilda glanced down at the sigils lighting up under her feet. She met Edelgard’s wide eyes. The former emperor grit her teeth and nodded. Hilda limped forward. 

“Revenge will finally be granted to humanity! Agartha will have reveng—argh!” Thales cast his baleful eye on Edelgard, still at his feet. In her outstretched hand glowed the remnants of black magic. _Huh._ The entire time, the emperor had never been defenseless. “For that, you will be punished!”

“Nah, that’s you.” Hilda raised Freikugle. “This is for Claude!” Thales didn’t have a chance to turn around before she brought the demonic axe through his neck. His body collapsed in a heap. She spat on his rolling head. “You’re supposed to make sure no one’s in your protective barrier _before_ you set it up, bastard.”

The barrier shattered. The glow at their feet, on the other hand, got brighter.

“Raphael, grab Claude! Are we all accounted for? Where’s Dedue?” She spotted the big man hobbling against Flayn. “Let’s get out of here before this bl—oh shit.”

The underground facility shook, pillars crumbling and rocks falling. She raised her eyes to the surface light streaming down at them. The glint of another Javelin of Light was a growing spec in the sky. 

Rhea leapt out and into the sky. And turned into a dragon. Hilda blamed Claude for the fact that she was barely shocked at the revelation. Rhea’s roars shook the cavern almost as much as the explosives.

“We need to go! Now!” She turned to find Edelgard rummaging through Thales pockets. “Edelgard, come on!” The former emperor nodded and accepted her hand.

“Claude’s still breathing!” Raphael shouted over the rumbling. “He’s still alive!”

* * *

Rhea’s injuries were compounded on themselves. She was barely cognizant. Seteth was so sick of losing family. She was slipping away and there was nothing anyone could do.

“She was our only hope,” Rhea whispered to him. “Without her… without mother… there is nothing left. I thought my prayers answered… and yet, they took her from us. She’s gone now… even her heart. Would it have even worked? I see now… without her creststone, Begalta was as mortal as her vessel. She’s gone forever now, as mortals go. With her, so too dies hope.” Rhea was dying. She didn’t have the will to fight.

He clasped her hand in his. He made his choice. “I’m sorry, sister.” He was. He was _so sorry._ “The healers say you do not have long.”

“I know.” Rhea closed her eyes. “For so long, I heard Mother’s voice in my dreams. Do you think I’ll see her again? Or Begalta… all of our family? I miss them, Cichol. I’m so tired of being alone. Without hope, I cannot bear life…”

Given that many of their souls still resided within their dormant creststones, he doubted it. Begalta’s awakening was an existential nightmare on many, many levels. _When he dies, will he…?_ “How do you wish to be buried?” Once, long ago, it wasn’t a question they bothered with. Mother gave burial rites to the handful of souls that died. How did she release the spirits of those fallen? Destroying one’s creststone might work, but it could just as easily destroy the soul itself. He had no way to know.

Rhea slipped into sleep. He bowed his head and clutched her hand one last time. She may live another week, maybe another hour. “How did it come to this?” If he had been there for her, would she have been able to move on? No. It wasn’t any use thinking on what could have been.

He slipped out of Rhea’s room. He reached under his doublett, cradling Begalta’s creststone. He could only pray she agreed with his decision. He thought she may wish for a chance to say goodbye, even if unable to speak her mind. 

Alone in Rhea’s hallowed halls, he whispered down to her. “I’ve told you of his state. Forgive me for placing such a burden on you. I’m sure the others have stabilized him by now. Please bring him back to us. If anyone can find a way, it is you.”

His steps were slow as he returned to Flayn’s old quarters. The room was filled with her former classmates. On the bed laid Claude. His chest rose and fell, eyes occasionally blinking. Sometimes he slept, sometimes his eyes were open. He was unresponsive. His eyes no longer glowed. According to Flayn, his body was as fine as it ever was. Whatever the Agarthans did to him, no one could find a trace of their magic on him.

He approached the bed. Hilda curled around Claude, running her fingers through his hair. He was currently sleeping. They’d done everything they could think of to get him to respond. 

Seteth unstrung Begalta from his neck. All eyes were on him. “Begalta will be able to wake him up,” Marianne said. “She’s helped him so much before. We must have faith.”

He place Begalta around Claude’s neck, resting her above his heart. With a parting pat, he leaned back and held his breath.

Claude’s body woke, but that didn’t mean much. His eyes opened, still his old dull green without any glow. He breathed, and nothing more.

“We must be patient. It may take time for—”

Seteth was cut off as Claude jerked. He shuddered and inhaled deeply. For the first time since he was lost, his eyes moved.

“Claude!” Hilda threw her face against him and wept. The others too threw up their cheer.

“Claude, how do you feel? You look confused,” Marianne said. “We’re back at Garreg Mach. We won.”

Claude turned his head to eye his friends one by one. Slowly he sat up, wide eyes drifting around. “M…Mari…anne?” 

“Yes Claude, it’s me. You shouldn’t be sitting up. Are you de-energized?”

Claude looked down at Hilda. “H…Hil…da…”

Hilda sniffled, nodding against him. “Yeah, it’s me. We were so worried about you! Dummy, you have to stop doing this!”

“Can you tell us what happened Claude? What did they do to you?”

“What did… they… do…?” Claude’s facial muscles twitched, unable to settle on a proper expression. He was confused, that much was certain.

“Easy, easy.” Leonie leaned over to rub his back. “Hey, welcome back to the land of the living!”

Claude looked from face to face, still breathing hard. “W…where…?”

“You’re safe in Garreg Mach Claude, you’re safe.” Hilda stroked a hand through his hair. He pulled away from her and Leonie, wrapping his shaking hands around himself.

“Maybe he’s hungry?” Raphael suggested. “It’s been forever since his last meal.”

Claude stopped looking around, settling instead on him. Claude reached out and grabbed his forearm. “Where… where is…?”

“What do you need, Claude?”

Claude wheezed a sharp, shaky sound. “St…St…St…” Claude’s other hand grabbed onto him. Claude clutched him with a weak and clinging grip. “Star...light… where’s… Starlight…?”

The air punched from his lungs. 

“Starlight? Does he want us to take him outside…?”

Seteth sat down on the bed. Begalta clutched him desperately. “E…em…pty… No… Starlight… W-where…”

“You can’t find him?” Seteth whispered. “He’s… gone?”

Begalta gasped in air. “T-tell me… where… he is? Where is… w-where…” 

“He? ‘He’ who? Seteth, do you know what Claude’s trying to say?”

“It seems…” he swallowed hard, “providing I am understanding correctly… it seems Begalta cannot find Claude.”

Begalta threw back Claude’s head and screamed.

* * *

_“…ear m…? …don… whe… am… an’t fee… ythi… is tha… ou…? …ard…?…ard…?”_


	40. Sealed Starlight

_ “You …an hear m… right? Am I …lone? Is …ere? Hel…?  _

* * *

Starlight is gone. His body is empty. He is gone. There is no Starlight. He is gone.

“Begalta…”

Brother does not leave her alone. Starlight’s friends come and go. They cannot look at her. They cannot look at his corpse.

“Here, Flayn brought you food. Begalta? Please, for Claude’s sake, you must eat.”

She nods. Brother feeds her. Starlight always enjoyed eating. Starlight was always hungry. But Starlight is gone. She is not him. She isn’t hungry. But she must protect his body. His body must eat. She eats. She does not enjoy it.

There is no more warm starlight. He is empty of everything but her soul. She misses him. She wants him back. She  _ needs _ him back. Brother dabs away the tears she dribbles down Starlight’s cheeks. 

She wanted to live again. She does not want this. She wants Starlight back even if it means never feeling ever again.

But Starlight is dead. His soul is gone.

“I couldn’t do anything,” mother says. No, not mother. The vessel with mother’s heart that Rhea built. Starlight’s Teach. “No matter what I did, Thales was one step ahead. Just like with father…” 

Their words mean nothing to her. She does not respond.

They leave. Brother is by her side again. More time has passed. Minutes, hours, days, they all skitter away from her. She cannot tell the lengths apart. Brother’s touch grounds her in the present, but the present cannot last forever. 

“You should rest. Begalta? Where are you going?”

She doesn’t know. But Starlight’s body knows the path. She follows the pull and finds herself approaching the right spot.

“Sister, Rhea is… unwell.” He squeezes Starlight’s arm, preventing her from walking further. “You know as well as I. Please do not make this harder than it already is.”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t go to Starlight’s old sickbed. The woman who was once her sister is of no further concern to her. Perhaps with Starlight’s help, that thought would hurt. Alone, adrift in time’s flow, she has no anchor to hold. No warm starlight to remind her she is more than her calcified heart. She cannot care for one who was willing to trade Starlight’s life for hers. The Begalta who knew Seiros is not the Begalta who needs her light back.

She goes to the terrace. She sits. She looks up at the stars. Starlight wanted to see the stars, wanted to stargaze again. He had been too ill. Now he may never see the night sky again. At some point a blanket is draped around her shoulders. She is gently lifted off the stone ground and settled onto a warm and soft cushion. She does not look away. She needs to find Starlight. 

“Where do… mortal souls go… when they die, brother?” It is so much harder remembering how to speak without his help.

“I do not know.”

“I cannot find Starlight. I can’t find him.” 

She only stops looking when the dawn wipes away the field of graves from the night sky.

* * *

_ “…top igno… know you can …sten to me …ortant…! …llo? Please say som… so I know… not alo… going craz… stuck…”  _

* * *

“You thought you could escape? How foolish.” Thales gloated above her. His cold hand caressed her cheek, a syringe wavering in the other. “We have so much more to learn, you and I.”

“You’re dead!” She shouted, straining against her chains. “I watched you die! You can’t hurt anyone ever again!”

“E-Edelgard?”

Thales cackled, his voice echoing around her cell. “Arrogant animal. You are nothing but a helpless girl. Weak. I will mold you into something powerful.”

The syringe came closer.

“No! Stop!” She threw herself away from the syringe, pushing every ounce of strength to fight the chains. They held fast. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me!”

“And  _ you. _ You cannot hide from me, specimen.” The syringe hovered a hair’s width from her eye. Thales turned and snapped his fingers. A small cage appeared in the air before crashing to her feet. 

“Edelgard!” Claude shouted, squirming in his tiny cage. Scars and wounds of all sorts littered his body. He couldn’t move even an inch, knees forced against his chest and arms bound to his sides. His wide eyes whipped between her and Thales. “Where are we? What’s going—”

“Silence.” With a wave of his hand, Thales stitched Claude’s mouth shut. He muffled a scream, the whites of his eyes growing. The cage hummed and shimmered silver. In that instant it shrunk further, the metal pressing into Claude’s biceps. He muffled more shouts, frantically thrashing. The cage moved with him but the metal didn’t budge.

“It’s no use,” she whispered, knowing it to be true. They were both at Thales’ mercy. She squeezed her eyes shut, the booming echoes of Thales’ cackles never ending. She felt the syringe pierce her skull. More joined the first.

All was dark and silent, all aside from Claude’s muffled struggles. In death, at least, she would finally be free.

“Is that what you believe?”

Her eyes flew open. Thales was gone. In his place stood a blood soaked and rotting Dimitri. He snatched her by the shoulder, tearing her free of her chains. She screamed as her shoulders ripped from their sockets, her arms left in shackles on the floor. 

“You deserve no mercy after your sins,  _ wretched woman. _ This is but a taste of the suffering you have inflicted. The dead shall take our dues.” Maggots dripped from his hollowed eye socket.

“Ed…elgard!” Claude wrenched his mouth open. From his mouth exploded a swarm of flies. He flinched violently. His atrophied hands clawed at his mouth as his body began to rot. He tried to scream, more flies exiting his corpse. Again his cage sparkled and shrank, squeezing the flesh from his bones.

“The only dead you will pay attention to is  _ me,” _ Dimitri growled into her ear. He ripped an imperial-styled spear from his back and pressed it to her stomach. “Rot in the eternal flames, witch!”

She screamed, yanking at the chain that bound her. Once, with the aid of her crests, yanking the chain fixtures from the wall would have been as easy as breathing. Now they held fast, tying her to her fate.

The door creaked open, warm orange light melting Dimitri’s after-shadow from the land of the living. Dedue strode into the room. He looked to her first, then around the room for any intruders, then back to her.

She shook so hard her chains rattled. She opened her mouth to give the usual excuse of ‘nightmare’, but no sound escaped. 

Dedue set the candle on her table. He took the chair closest to the door and sat down, silent. In the past, he would take the chair and sit beside the cell door, as far from her as possible. Her chains only allowed her to reach half of the room after all. He would set the candle out of her reach and watch her to insure she did nothing to escape through the night. Now he simply sat at the table.

The change wasn’t unexpected. After all, Dedue now knew she could use magic. She had never been unarmed (aside from the literal sense) while imprisoned. Every night he brought her that lone flickering candle, she could have ended him. The nights he nodded off with his back to the door, she should have withered the flesh from his bones. No matter how light a sleeper Dedue was, he would have died before he had the chance to retaliate.

But then what? Her magic could not free her from her chains. All she would accomplish was adding another name to her endless body count. At least every other corpse served a purpose for a greater future. Now, Edelgard von Hresvelg was dead and so was her greater future. Dedue’s death would be senseless murder.

She couldn’t explain why she saved his life in Shambhala. It would be easier for her if she hadn’t. She was sick of death. Perhaps that was why he sat closer now. Doubtful. He shouldn't trust her. He shouldn't pity her. He should just take her life already.

Dedue set something else on the table this time. A single cup of tea. She bowed her head and grit her teeth against the sob that followed her from her nightmare. 

“Why?”

Dedue said nothing. He rarely did.

Shaking, she stood. She refused to sleep. She hadn’t meant to sleep in the first place. The nights were hard. Nothing to do but watch the darkness and listen to the whispers of the dead. Dimitri waited in every shadow, in every blink. He was waiting for her.

She settled down in her chair and brought the tea to her lips. She didn’t hesitate in taking a sip. If she was to be poisoned, so be it. Chamomile. Warm, but not hot. 

“It was Dimitri,” she whispered. She didn’t know when or why she started speaking at Dedue on nights like these. “It’s always Dimitri now. Thales was there too.”

“I cannot imagine them getting along.”

She nearly choked on her tea. A joke? No, she agreed. “They did not work together,” she admitted. “I never wanted him dead.” Out of the way? Yes. Dead? No, in truth, she never wanted Dimitri to die. And now Claude was dead too. Funny to think she was the last of them to survive. She could still hear Claude’s cries for help, could still hear Dimitri’s demands for her head. “He was my step-brother.” She wished she never remembered.

“I am aware.”

She set down her cup. How could Dedue have known, but not her? Why had Dimitri never said anything to her…? No, it did not matter. Even if she had known, she wouldn’t have changed anything. It would have made it all the more harder. “I will not regret my actions. What I did was for the good of all of Fódlan. I had to stop Thales. I had to stop the church. The crest system is rotten to the core.” She squeezed her cup. The miniscule amount of the unnatural strength that remained in her blood threatened to warp the simple tin. Claude took her crests, but an imprint of her Crest of Seiros still clung to her blood. It wasn’t even enough to free herself from her chains.

Dedue was silent. He didn't care what her reasons were. He was loyal to his lord no matter what. She missed Hubert.

_ “I will have your head,” _ Dimitri whispered from the darkness.

She stood abruptly and began to pace. She would not sleep again. Dimitri would find her. The scant hour or two that her nightmare granted her only left her  _ more _ tired than before. 

* * *

_ “Come on, I nee… out, let me o…! Going insa… cramped… can’t take th… how long…? Is anyo… ease! Please I need out, I need—” _

* * *

‘Claude’ was staring blankly at the wall again. 

_ “Maybe he’s still in there somewhere. Maybe they just put him to sleep or something. Maybe if we talk to him, he’ll hear us.” _

“For someone who claims to have good self-preservation, you get in way too many life-threatening situations. Seriously, what is this, the tenth time? More than that probably. Stop hiding already, wake up! Ugh, this is a ploy to get me to do all your work even  _ longer, _ isn’t it!”

‘Claude’ didn’t reply.

“You promised you would explain why you laughed that one time, remember Claude? You promised. If you think you can get out of that by sleeping, you’ve got another thing coming. We need you to wake up, Claude.” The people were wondering where their soon-to-be ‘king’ was. They had to admit he was injured at Shambhala. “I got a letter from my brother. It’s about Almyra. Aren’t you interested? I’ll tell you what it says if you wake up Claude.”

Nothing.

“You remember Nader the Undefeated, right? The guy you passed off as ‘Nardel’. Apparently him and Holst  _ do _ still exchange letters regularly. I can’t believe you left out the fact that Nader’s, like, the  _ regent _ of Almyra. That’s a super important detail to leave out! Holst sent me a letter asking why Nader was under the impression you were dead. How am I supposed to respond to that? Wake up and take responsibility already!”

“He isn’t here.” She flinched. ‘Claude’ still blankly stared at the wall. The first time Begalta possessed Claude had been weird enough. But Claude had still been in there. Now it was just Begalta, the soul of Failnaught.

“I refuse to believe he’s dead. He’s stronger than that.”

“He’s not here.” Begalta pitched Claude’s voice into a soft, ragged mockery of his usual self. Claude had been brought low this past month, but even when he begged and sobbed he didn’t sound so defeated. 

“Well look harder! He  _ has _ to be in there somewhere!”

Slowly Begalta turned Claude’s head to stare at her. It was surreal to see his eyes no longer glowing. She knew it was only because she was so used to the glow, but his current green looked dull and dead. “He isn’t here. He isn’t in the stars. I can’t find him.”

“You brought him back before! Just do what you did then!”

‘Claude’ blinked at her a few times. Just as she was about to repeat herself, Begalta finally responded. “Starlight… has always been here. I kept him here. But now he is gone.”

_ Starlight. _ It was always  _ starlight this _ and  _ starlight that.  _ “Why do you call him that?”

“Starlight…? It is what he is.” Begalta lifted the silver creststone hung around Claude’s neck. “Starlight. Like this. Before Starlight… only darkness.”

She bit her lip. Failnaught’s creststone hadn’t always been that color. She still remembered Claude’s  _ oddly specific _ questions about Friekugle all those years ago. For someone like Claude, his panic had been downright transparent. “Have you been talking to him all these years? Since your creststone turned silver?”

“Healing took… time. I spoke… only how I knew how. Starlight dimmed at times… I wanted him bright. I couldn’t think, could barely feel. He felt much, so I… stopped him. From feeling so much. Soothe. Soothe is the word.”

“Was that before or after he started sleeping with you?” She’d nearly screamed the first time she walked in on him  _ snuggling _ his giant creepy bow. For the longest time he refused to even touch his house’s relic. Then out of nowhere he refused to let Failnaught out of his sight. She’d had a  _ lot _ of reasons to worry about him in those days.

_ “Hilda, has Friekugle ever given you any weird dreams?” _ he once asked her.

_ “Like nightmares? I mean, the Lance of Ruin gave me some. Ugh, can’t believe how creepy that weapon is.” _

_ "Not what I meant. What about nice dreams? Or a lack of dreams?” _

In truth, she’d worried he was losing it when he started mumbling to his bow on a daily basis. Most people kept a journal, but not Claude. Nope, he just talked to his freaky bow! Or the times he was vomiting up bile, if he didn’t already have Failnaught that became his first request. Not  _ ‘can you lay me on the bed’ _ or  _ ‘pass me some water’ _ or  _ ‘sorry I got some silver on your skirt’. _ Those sorts of things came  _ after _ he had Failnaught weakly clutched in his hands. More often than not, hugged against his chest as he passed out on the floor.

In hindsight, the fact that Begalta existed should not have surprised her. 

“I… don’t know. He would… talk. Hold me. Soothe… me too. I… don’t think he knew I heard. He was dim. Stressed…? Stressed. Lonely. Afraid. I didn’t like the dim… so I soothed him. He liked being soothed, so he held me more. I liked being held. His light healed me.” Begalta peered at her, eyes lowering down to her neck. Across Claude’s collarbone Begalta traced a line. “His light healed you too…”

She resisted the urge to touch the silvery scar on her collarbone. “The silver bile.”

‘Claude’ slowly blinked. “I… guess so. It was… hard. On him. His blood is mine… in part. It… filtered? Filtered through me… But his blood is mine…  _ and _ other. Both filtered into me… Starlight.”

“I have no idea what any of that means. Maybe Lysithea or Linhardt would get it.”

“His light is gone. He is… dark. Empty. No light.”

She nibbled on her lip. “Wait. So if his ‘light’ is his vomit, are you talking about his crest? He turns that off all the time, but his eyes glow anyway.”

“He is empty. Only me.”

“You are  _ so _ unhelpful.” She stood up and made for the door. It was a long shot, but all they  _ had _ were shots in the dark. Getting Linhardt to test his crest might do  _ something. Anything. _ She paused at the doorway, eyeing ‘Claude’ again. “He’s not dead. I  _ refuse _ to believe he’s dead.” After everything, what was one more miracle for him to pull off? Claude would be back. He  _ had _ to come back. He always did.

* * *

_ “…ot it! I’m free! Stars, I thought I’d never get out of there. Wait… no, no, come on! Why is it still so tight?! Let me go! What the—? Why can’t I…? What’s going on?! Okay, okay, don’t panic, can’t afford to panic. Shit, it’s still so cramped. Is it getting tighter? No, no, I’m just… losing my mind! That’s all! Fuck!” _

* * *

The four of them hovered over Claude’s bed as Linhardt finished fiddling with the machine. Lysithea helped him stabilize it. Flayn’s eyes were closed in concentration as she channeled a staff-based diagnostic spell. Hilda paced a hole in the carpet on the other side of the room.

While those three performed their magic (and Hilda continued to pace), Marianne could only help by performing her routine. Begalta was a model patient for all the wrong reasons. There were no complaints or whines as she took Claude’s vitals. No begging for extra food, no schemes to win himself extra touches. Watching Claude’s body passively take in food without even the smallest spec of interest wasn’t right. She took off his shirt to examine his chest, carefully feeling his ribs and stomach. She was used to Claude arcing into her touch (or attempting to). Begalta didn’t even acknowledge her.

Claude lost some weight while kidnapped but thank the Goddess not much. She had planned to surprise him on their return from Shambhala with a little bit of solid food. Despite his setback, his body should be ready to eat solid food in just a few days. Whether Claude would be around to enjoy it was unknown.

“Now this is interesting.” Linhardt pointed to the device. “There are traces of energy — I assume that comes from Begalta — but there is no native crest magic within him. Even when he ‘put his crest somewhere else’ as he said it, there were always traces.” 

Flayn lowered her staff. “Physically he is as he always is. However, as difficult as it is for one unskilled as myself to see, he is deficient of something. Perhaps it is his crest energy.”

She bit her lip. Claude trusted her to keep his secret. He didn’t keep many secrets from them anymore. The fact that he was so adamant about his crest-holding crystal remaining a secret was not up to her. She hoped he would forgive her (and prayed he would be  _ around _ to forgive her). 

“Begalta…” Dull green eyes drifted to her. “Um, Claude’s stone… where he puts his energy… do you know where it is?”

“It’s… gone.”

Lysithea inhaled sharply. “Seteth explained some details to me, though he didn’t know everything. If Claude’s energy is routinely stored within the crystal, and the crystal  _ and _ energy is gone, this might be the key! Perhaps without the energy, his consciousness is too weak to wake up.”

“He isn’t here…”

“You don’t know that for sure!” Lysithea snapped. 

“I’m going to roll you over, Begalta,” Marianne murmured as she finished up Claude’s checkup. Begalta easily rolled over. She pressed against his spine, his back, his sho— 

“It’s gone,” she whispered.

“Not you too,” Linhardt grumbled. “We get it. ‘Claude is gone.’”

Marianne shook her head. “No. His birthmark.” She traced over where the circular symbol used to be on his shoulder blade. “It’s always right here. I don’t understand.”

“That’s right! He mentioned his birthmark weeks ago, then went and distracted me!” Lysithea darted over to the book corner and snagged a journal. “Marianne, did it look like this?” She pointed to a hand-drawn picture, the middle symbol out of three.

“No, it’s that one.” She pointed to the image to the side.

“The Almyran brand!” Hilda shouted, making Marianne flinch. “Oh my gosh, you’re right, it’s gone!”

“He has a  _ brand,” _ Flayn whispered. “Sweet Goddess. No wonder he is so messed up.”

“You know what this is?!” Linhardt and Lysithea shouted at the same time.

“He said it was a gift,” Hilda said. “From his grandfather. He laughed really hard when I said it was a slave brand, so, uh, it’s not that.”

“His  _ grandfather?!” _ Flayn was the one to shout this time. “His  _ grandfather  _ is a Manakete?  _ A dragon?!” _

“A  _ what!?” _

“Oh… perhaps forget I said anything?” Flayn raised her shoulders to her cheeks. “Um, please do not tell my brother I said as such.”

“Starlight just calls him ‘gramps’ for the fun of it,” Begalta murmured. “They are many, many generations removed.”

“Flayn, what’s a ‘Manakete brand’?”

“It is…” she paused, tapping her chin. “It is like a crest, but on the outside. Claude has a crest  _ and _ a brand. That…” she grimaced, “yes, together that would be quite the disaster.”

There was a beat of silence.

“But he’s  _ our _ disaster,” Hilda said.

“Our  _ missing _ disaster,” Linhardt corrected. “They somehow removed his crest and this ‘brand’ of his. Perhaps they are both in that stone of his, or perhaps they are crestslates. If we can find those, perhaps he will reawaken.”

“Um, yes, but… wouldn’t the most likely place for those to be found…” Marianne wrung her hands together and looked down at her feet, “um, be in the same place we found him…?”  _ ‘Buried under an unknowable amount of earth’ _ went unsaid.

“We don’t know that for sure.” Lysithea tore out a blank piece of parchment, scribbling the combined Riegan and Almyran symbol on it. “There might be other labs. We can start by sending out scouts. And if we send someone to Shambhala’s ruins, we can at least look around the surface for clues. Or look for tracks of anyone who fled!” She thrust the page at Hilda. “What are you waiting for? Get to delegating! Make sure everyone knows to look for his silver rock with that symbol!”

“Um, right! Yeah, let’s get our disaster back! Hey, Linhardt, will you help—”

“No. I’m busy. Delegate to someone else.”

“Aw. Okay.” She pointed to Begalta. “You sit tight and take care of his body. We’ll get our special Starlight back.”

Begalta gave a tiny smile. “Thank you. He will be very touched when he returns. Perhaps… perhaps I can try to… talk?… No, to… commune. With Starlight’s… ‘gramps.’”

“The Manakete?” Flayn asked, eyes bugging wide. “I thought there were none left!”

“He is very dead, yes. But his spirit lives… in the night sky. Starlight spoke with him once before. I am not certain I… remember the way. But I must try.”

“Um, is that metaphorical?” Marianne didn’t know how one could be  _ related _ to an astral body… but if anyone  _ could, _ it would be Claude.

“The… ‘Guiding King star’. The… Northern star? That is Starlight’s bloodkin.”

“We are  _ certainly _ going to come back to this detail when there is more time,” Linhardt grumbled under his breath. "This is going to be a mess to explain to the others."

* * *

_ “You can’t ignore me forever. I  _ know _ you hear me now. Right? Surely you hear me. Come on. Say something! Say anything! Argh! It’s still so cramped!… You can hear me… right? Right?… Please say something…” _

* * *

“How long do you intend to keep me here?” 

Byleth poured her a cup of tea. It was a nice cup. Not tin. Porcelain. 

“Those Who Slither in the Dark are defeated. Rhea is dying. If there’s anyone who can usher in a new age, it’s you. I hope you have taken our talks to heart about crests. My life is done. I can’t achieve anything else. I’m ready to die.”

“Rhea died last night.”

_ “Already?” _

She took a long pull of the tea. Bergamot. Her favorite. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “If you expect condolences, you will have to look elsewhere.”

“You look tired.”

She hummed into her tea. “I thought I would be at peace seeing Thales dead. I don’t regret my path. I did what I had to. I did. But I can’t rest without seeing and hearing those who died.” She set her cup down with a clink. “I hear Dimitri most of all. It is only now that I hear his spirit howling for my death.”  _ Dead blue eye, blank. Face forever twisted in wrath. _ She forced her eyes to stay open.

_ “You claim you hear the dead, yet you act deaf.” _

She brought her palm to her forehead, unable to will away her headache. “My siblings have haunted my dreams for years. I couldn’t let Those Who Slither use me, I couldn’t let their deaths be in vain. My lifespan is short. It was my only shot. I had to end the crest system, end the church.”

_ “Who are you trying to justify this to? You’re trying to convince yourself.” _

She went to take a sip, but her cup was empty. Her hand shook.

“Edelgard?”

“I am well. What of you, my teacher? You appear haggard.”

“Now that Rhea is dead, I am the true archbishop. I never wanted the position.”

She glared at the wall. “You could dissolve the church.”

_ “Of course that’s your suggestion.” _

They shook their head. “People need it. The church is a support system for many. I may not believe myself, but I give hope to others. I try to, at least.” They raised their hand to their heart. “I had questions for Rhea that I will never know. It weighs heavily on me.”

She huffed. “No wonder you chose Claude over me. He always questioned the church. Questioned everything. I tried to give him the truth but he didn’t accept it. He didn’t believe me. Dimitri didn’t either. No one did.”

_ “I wonder why. You can’t see beyond your own nose.” _

Byleth poured her another cup. Her hand shook as she lifted it to her lips, sloshing hot liquid on herself. She closed her eyes to savor the taste. Dimitri’s lone eye bored into her, waiting. Her eyes snapped back open.

“Did you bring sugar? I could use some sugar.” Anything to stay awake.

_ “Just sleep already. Stop fighting the inevitable!” _

“I can’t sleep.” She accepted the sugar Byleth passed to her. She poured more than a generous amount into her tea.

“Nightmares?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m terrified of death. I don’t want to die. All the people that blame me for the war, for the destruction, they are waiting for me. Dimitri is waiting for me. I was creating a better world to last for all generations to come. But no one sees that. They only see me as a monster.”

_ “Or perhaps they see the literal monsters you made and used.” _

“I did what I had to.  _ I _ am not responsible for  _ their _ actions. I  _ won’t _ regret it, stop trying to make me!”

“I didn’t say anything…”

“A-ah. Apologies. I’m… unwell. The wait is getting to me. I haven’t slept more than a handful of hours since Shambhala. Have you?”

Byleth shook their head. “Not much.”

She went to reach for her cup, stump uselessly reaching out. She still forgot often. “Has Claude’s death been announced yet?”

Byleth didn’t reply immediately. “Who said anything about his death?”

“I saw him at Shambhala. His eyes were blank. Thales killed him.”

Byleth said nothing.

“You don’t trust me with that information? Who am I going to tell, Dimitri’s ghost?”

“Professor,” Seteth’s voice called from the other side of the door. “There has been a development. Your presence is required.”

Byleth drained their cup. “I have duties to attend to. I know it’s hard, but try to get some rest anyways. I’ll be back whenever I get free time.”

Alone again.

_ “Usually I’m happy that they’re so good at keeping secrets but that was frustrating.” _

“Shut  _ up! _ Shut up! Go away!” She threw her teacup at Claude. It exploded into a thousand shards, not a single one touching his faint outline or his infuriating smirk. “Shut up shut up shut up!”

_ “So you finally acknowledge me and this is what I get? Rude.” _

“I’m rude? You’re the one haunting me! Just leave me alone! Let me sleep! I’m not the one that killed you, leave me be!” She clutched at her short hair. “Leave me alone! Isn’t Dimitri enough?! Leave me alone!”

_ “Dimitri isn’t here. Just me.” _

“When my eyes are open it’s you. When my eyes are closed it’s him. Torment someone else!”

_ “I promise you won’t have a nightmare and I promise you won’t see Dimitri again. I know what I’m doing now. Er, kinda. Begalta used to do it all the time… Look, just go to sleep already! You’re losing it.” _

“The dead man is telling  _ me _ I’m losing it. You’ve been screaming to yourself for hours now! How rich. Get lost!” She stood and started pacing. She wouldn’t give into Claude’s scheme. She wouldn’t sleep.

_ “Excuse me for having a meltdown! What else was I supposed to think other than ‘Oh shit, I'm stuck in this damned tiny rock of a prison, I can’t touch anything, it’s  _ still _ cramped, and no one can hear me!’ You weren’t responding!” _

“Because you’re dead! At least Dimitri has  _ tact.” _

_ “For the last time, Dimitri isn’t here!” _

* * *

“Finally!”

She flinched awake. She wasn’t in her cell anymore. “Where am I?”

“I think this is the woods outside of Garreg Mach at night. Hard to tell.”

She whirled on him, ready to defend herself. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Claude shrugged, whole and solid. His old academy braid was back though he wore his puffy duke outfit along with a foreign-looking headscarf. One eye was surrounded by a gruesome wound, the eye itself still functioning. It was a chilling reminder of Dimitri. He looked as youthful as their school years. Compared to his hollowed cheekbones when she saw him last, his cheeks were almost chubby like this.

“I’m almost as blind to this as you are. All I know is that it’s _way_ easier to talk to you in your sleep. It just took me a bit to figure it out.” He shuddered. “That was some nightmare you cooked up last time. Please never, ever involve me in one of those ever again.” He rolled his shoulder, bending over to do some stretches. “And _finally_ a little bit of relief from that confinement. Ugh, I still feel that I'm trapped, but this isn't half as bad. Like being caught in a medium sized cage instead of a pocket-sized one.”

“You’re dead.”

“Eh, maybe. I’m trying to stay optimistic. If I actually  _ am _ dead, I’m disappointed that Dimitri hasn’t said hi yet. Especially with how much you rave about him visiting you.”

“What do you  _ want?” _

“What I always want: to understand what the hell is going on. Look, I’m not here to ask you to do the impossible. I just need a teeny tiny little favor.”

“Will you leave me be if I do?”

“Absolutely! You know that pretty rock you’ve got strung around your neck? You need to give it to Lysithea.”

She reached for the thin metal chain. “No. Whatever this is, Thales thought it was important. No one should have their hands on it.”

The dark forest was replaced with black void and blue highlights.

_ “Thales!” She burst into the atrium, bearing her blade and teeth at the man who was responsible for so much of her suffering. Even if this was a suicide mission, it would be worth it. A fitting way to die. “You will pay for what you’ve done to me, to my family, and to humanity!” _

_ Thales was slow to turn around. “My, my, my… that’s a face I thought I would never see again. If it isn’t my dear  _ niece. _ Ah, what’s this? Your hair… that is no dye. Curious.” _

_ “You are not my uncle and you have never been him!” She charged, knowing the result to come. _

_ Magic threw her aside as if she were a puppet. Her sword fell from her grip. Thales picked it up and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “This is your desperate last stand? Pathetic.” In a flash the sword disintegrated.  _ Good. _ Now he would underestimate her. _

_ She stumbled to her knees. Thales was already there, heel digging into her shoulder blade. “Tell me what happened to my mother!” _

_ “Ah. So  _ that _ is your goal. Dearest Anselma. Or as she was known in the Kingdom, Patricia.” Something about that name was familiar, just on the tip of her tongue. She shook her head. “Does that ring any bells? It should. You knew her step-son. Driven to madness by the betrayal of his step-sister… Ah, but you didn’t ask about the former prince of Faerghus.” _

_ What? No. No, that couldn’t be…! No. The kindly blue eyes from a young and forgotten Faerghan boy had to wait. “My mother! What happened to her?!” _

_ “She so dearly missed her daughter. Do you wish to see her again? Behave and I will take you to her after these pests have been dealt with.” _

_ She hung her head and grit her teeth. Years and years living under Thales’ thumb taught her to read him. He wouldn’t have offered unless it was a lie.  _ Her mother was dead. _ Another member of her family to add to Thales’ body count (did Dimitri count…?) _

_ Thales yanked her head upright by a short tuft of hair. His white eyes narrowed. In his other hand he pulled out a glimmering stone attached to a cord. “How compatible is this power with a beast such as yourself, I wonder… This must be how your crest was destroyed. Delightfully curious. The weapons this will build for us…” A terrible grin unfurled. “The last specimen was weak. Yet you have always withstood more than expected.” _

“What the hell was that?!” She whirled on Claude.

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is  _ your _ dream, don’t ask me. Guess I don’t have as much control here as I thought. Begalta made it seem so easy in her memories…” He eyed the spot where Thales just stood. “You guys  _ did _ kill him in the end, right?”

“Hilda beheaded him.”

_ She dug through the headless corpse’s robe. Whatever that silver trinket was, it was important to Thales. Explosions rocked the facility. She didn’t dare look up at the Immaculate One. Not until she secured what she needed. _

_ “Edelgard! Come on!” _

_ She found the trinket. It was slightly warm. She threw the cord around her neck, tucking it into her shirt. She spared a single glance at the sky. Countless explosions covered every spec of blue. She raced for the exit as the place crumbled. _

“Damn I missed the best part. That was a lot of javelins. Thanks for snagging the rock.” His smile faltered. “I would have been buried under all that rubble. Forever, maybe.” He paled. “Uh, did I thank you yet? Because that would’ve been a fate much worse than death.”

_ Twitching pain endless endless endless can’t move numb numb endless endless screaming pain endless—  _

She staggered, clutching strands of long hair with both hands. “What was  _ that?!” _

Claude shot her a weak grin. “A glimpse of what could’ve been my fate, I guess.”

“What even is this?” The rock was in her hand, glittering silver. The insignia didn’t match anything she’d ever seen.

_ “The ‘saint’ himself.” Thales chuckled above him. He struggled but the magic binds refused to budge. “I’ve heard some fascinating reports. Some say you can reverse a demonic transformation without killing the animal. Some say you cannot die to mortal wounds. I wonder how true this is… Some even say your Riegan crest is silver, never faltering in battle.” _

_ “Some also say I’m charming and handsome, you forgot that bit.” _

_ Thales ignored him. Cold metal of the man’s gauntlet reached into his shirt and pulled out his dragonstone. “Oh, what’s this? Like a creststone, but not… If I didn’t know any better, I would think this a Manakete dragonstone. That’s impossible though.” His grin only grew. “As impossible as surviving a thousand arrow wounds. I’ve wanted one of  _ these _ to play with for a very, very long time…” _

_ How did the man recognize it? “I see that rumor has grown. It was one sword actually. Don’t get me wrong, it was very impressive. Sure fooled everyone around me.” It wasn’t like Thales could do anything with the stone. So long as it was empty, it was useless. Even while full, the First King said it would remain useless to anyone but himself.  _

_ Thales pressed the stone back over his heart. “It’s empty. Fill it with your essence, beast. Or I will take it by force.” The cold crystal bit into his skin as Thales pressed down harder. _

_ “It looks shiny and full to me. I’m surprised you recognize it. I thought this was a lost art.” He was stalling for time. Thales couldn’t take his energy by force, but he  _ could _ steal the dragonstone itself. Claude wasn’t sure he could make a second one. He needed that stone to live. _

_ “I intend to reverse-engineer your ‘lost art’, don’t worry. It won’t die with you.” Magic gathered at Thales’ fingertips, dancing on top of his dragonstone. That was probably bad. “Now, your essence,  _ Manakete.”

_ Whatever Thales was doing, it wasn’t only ripping away his energy. His body went limp, then cold, and then he couldn’t see, and then he couldn’t move or feel anything. He tried to shout as something squeezed him but his mouth wouldn’t work. The pressure didn’t let up. How his body wasn’t crushed into messy giblets was a mystery that he was too busy to solve.  _

_ When the pressure finally stopped, he was truly stuck. Everything was impossibly cramped. He couldn’t move an inch. He couldn’t feel anything but the sensation of tightness.  _

“Are you going to keep doing that?!” she snapped at him. “At least give me a warning!”

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m not doing anything. Not intentionally. Do I seem like the kind of guy to overshare like that?”

“You  _ are  _ the sort to pry into my mind!”

“Come on Edelgard, I’m only here because it’s my only option. Thales mistook me for something I’m not and now my soul is stuck in a rock. Cut me some slack, this has been an existential nightmare for me.  _ You _ haven’t been helpful at all. Seriously, I thought I was going insane, and what did you do? You kept ignoring me! See if I help  _ you _ if you get stuck in a rock.”

She weighed the crystal in her hands. Which held Claude’s  _ soul. _ “You want me to pass this to Lysithea. What will you give me in return?”

“Peace and quiet for one. Unless you  _ want _ to be haunted by the most annoying ghost ever for the rest of your life. Trust me, I am  _ excellent _ at pestering people.”

The dream shifted once more, taking them to her old war room in Enbarr. She wore her battle armor, her long white hair done up in a side ponytail. She gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Let us negotiate. To start with, I want an explanation on everything. What you are, what this magic is, all of it.”

“You drive a hard bargain. Pass. Anything I tell you will be  _ part _ of our deal, not a freebee. While we’re here, I also want to finish our little chit chat we started back at Enbarr. Since you can’t lop off my head this time. Let’s hear your reason for your war. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“You refuse to tell me information and expect me to give in return? As you said: pass.” 

“Aww, don’t be like that. I  _ want _ you to convince me! I’m curious to see how misinformed you are.” He kicked back in a chair and planted his golden boots on her table. “We’ve got plenty to discuss.”

She held up the rock. “Allow me to remind you who holds your life. My life is already forfeit. With some doing, this is small enough to be swallowed. If I were to do so just before my execution… It would be a shame for you to be buried along with my corpse.”

It was a good thing time worked odd in dreams. They spent a very, very long time negotiating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the deer know like 90% of Claude's secrets ;)
> 
> Congrats to everyone that guessed what Claude said last chapter! :D The correct answer was "...hear me? I don't know where I am. I can't feel anything. Is that you? Edelgard? Edelgard?"   
> I didn't reply to comments last chapter, as most of them involved speculation and I didn't trust myself not to spoil stuff hehe... There were some really good theories tho! Low-key a little upset I didn't think of Azhang5143's 'Claude get used as a battery for the dark SotC' theory myself lol.
> 
> Anyways, thank you everyone for the continued comments and support :D Only a handful of chapters left, the end is drawing near. Roughly 5? Ish? Don't quote me on that. Next chapter: wacky ghost adventures with Claude and co.


	41. Selective Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt title: Claudstrophobic
> 
> Rip to my goal of finishing this fic by the end of the year. I have a final chapter count up at least. Roughly. I'm debating on whether or not I want to do an 'endcard' chapter, so there may be give or take a chapter. But I hit my (retroactive) goal of publishing 500k words this year :D 
> 
> Anyways, happy new year to all! Here's to hoping 2021 isn't as much of a dumpsterfire

“I can’t break my promise to Dedue.” 

“You’re no man of honor, Claude. Is your word more important than your life?”  _ Rude. _ She again taunted him with his dragonstone in her clutches. She was  _ very _ lucky he tried to keep his word.  _ Oh, _ he would break it if necessary for his survival. He was willing to promise Edelgard anything so long as it meant she gave his dragonstone to Lysithea. Ideally though, he wanted to follow through with his promise. Plus, if he just caved to whatever she wanted, it would be obvious he had no plan to follow through.

Edelgard only had the one bargaining chip. It was a very, very important bargaining chip to him. But as soon as she released him, she was back to being completely powerless. He understood the precariousness of her situation. He understood it better than she did. He’d been in her place plenty of times over the course of his life, reduced to scheming and begging for his life.

“Half a year. That’s the best I can give you.”

“Five years.”

He twirled his hand and shifted the dreamscape to the night sky. It wasn’t so long ago he himself was on death’s door. “A year, and no more. No guarantees on my part that Dedue won’t lop your head off before then either. That’s more than enough time to visit a handful of tombstones.” The dreamscape flickered to a cold, rainy graveyard. A single blink later and it vanished, once again placing them in the night sky. “I’ll even give you the location Hubert was buried.”

Gone was her red dress and axe, gone was her hair and spare arm. “You gave him a burial?”

“I tried to spare him. Loyal to the end.” He wasn’t certain Hubert received a burial, but it was the sort of thing Teach would have seen done. “You were lucky to have him.”

“Indeed.” She exhaled, and again she was the Emperor. “You will tell me who out of my strike force survived.”

“I’ll tell you who lived, but you aren’t allowed to see them. They’ve moved on.” Cruel, perhaps. It was for the best. It would be dangerous to give her too many resources, to give her voice a listening ear.

She tried to glare a hole through his head. “Very well.”

* * *

They mimed shaking hands. Even in Edelgard’s dream he didn’t have a physical presence. “And so we are agreed.”

“Yes. Now release this dream and allow me to wake up.”

He shrugged. “Would if I could. It’s  _ your dream, _ for the last time.”

She glared at him. Silent moments passed.

“Sooo… since we’ve got some time to kill…”

She threw her arm over her eyes. “I’m beginning to miss Dimitri.”

* * *

“And why should I believe any of your nonsense?”

“Good question.” Laying on his stomach, he kicked his feet back and forth on his dorm bed. The dream was currently a mishmash of their old dorm quarters. “Better question is why you’re willing to trust intel from, y’know, the people that experimented on you.”

She stopped her pacing to plant her arms on her hips and glare at him. “Wilhelm I’s accounts of—”

“Yes, yes, you already told me about him. There’s nuance to the War of Heroes. Of course there is, it’s naive to just believe any  _ one _ telling of a history.” He raised a pointed eyebrow at her. “What’s the point of holding someone else’s millennia old grudge? I can barely hold a minute grudge.”

“Ridiculous. You’ve never forgotten even the smallest slight against you.”

“Forgiving and forgetting are two  _ very _ different things.”

“Forgiveness?  _ Really? _ Rich coming from someone like y—” she resumed pacing and immediately tripped over a pile of books. “Claude! Must your  _ dream _ room be so messy?!”

“It’s organized chaos. Gives life to the room!” He dangled over the side of his bed, pouting at her upside-down. “Don’t tell me what to do,  _ mom.” _

She threw a book at him. It thumped onto the bed, unable to touch him.

* * *

“—and  _ that _ is why I avoid blue cheese with a passion.”

“Wow.” Edelgard lay on the floor beside him. “That was a pointless story.”

“Got any better ideas on killing time? This is your fault for staying up so long. You have got to have been snoozing for hours by now. Maybe an entire day!”

“It feels like this dream has lasted a year.”

“Welcome to being uncomfortably conscious without a physical body.” He sighed. “You know, I’d eat blue cheese if I had the chance. But. Eh. I’ll eat anything these days.” He shrugged. “That’s crest bullshit for ya.”

“How is blue cheese related to your experimentation?”

“It’s not. I just hate blue cheese. Also, I wasn’t experimented on. Unless you count getting my soul sucked out.”

She jolted to her feet. “What?! This entire time, you led me on about—”

“Uuuuuuuugh.” He groaned at her until she shut up. “Never lied. My crest is complete bullshit, you’ve seen it in action. It is natural though. As natural as any crest is.”

Her expression slipped and her eyes flew wide as she flinched backwards.  _ “That _ is  _ natural?!” _

He caught sight of his bone-like wrist. Glancing down at himself, he was wearing an open shirt now. His body presented him at his lowest point. As disgustingly skinny as he was now, he had to admit he’d come a very long ways from the corpse-like wraith he’d been when his heart stopped. With a moment of focus he was back to his healthier appearance. “It’s not nice to pry into my private life, Eddie.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped for the thousandth time. Facing away from him, she rubbed her arm. “A shame. If I had known…” She shook her head. “No. Nothing would have changed.”

For the barest flicker, she changed. Gone was the emperor. Gone was the fallen conqueror. Edelgard was young, small, and thin. Horribly pale aside from the numerous red pinpricks littering her arm. Chains held her wrists together. A blink later and it was as if she never changed at all.

“Maybe in another world.”

* * *

If his feet were able to touch anything, the floor would be worn away from his pacing. Edelgard, now awake, laid on her bed. The dreamscape hadn’t been perfect, but it was  _ such relief _ compared to his current existence. Claude was uncomfortably used to being a ‘ghost’ by now. Or whatever he was. If  _ someone _ didn’t visit Edelgard soon, he was going to go mad.

He ‘pushed’ against the short leash that choked him, stepping as far as he could away from Edelgard. The binds around his soul squeezed, preventing him from taking so much as an unnecessary breath. Backing away from his boundary released a small amount of tension. His tether to his dragonstone was so short he couldn’t even walk around the entire room.

He plopped onto the floor and out of instinct tried to rub warmth into his nonexistent arms. The image of his hands went through the image of his arms. He couldn’t even touch  _ himself, _ let alone anything else. He tried to focus on being grateful. No pain, no hunger, no fatigue. If he got too cold, he could always return to the confines of his dragonstone. The cold was at least  _ something _ though. Something he could  _ feel. _ Sort of.

He dipped his legs underground, swinging them back and forth like he was sitting on the ledge of a pool. If he just closed his eyes — actually, closing his eyes did nothing, as he had no real eyelids. But if he  _ pretended _ he closed his eyes, and  _ pretended _ he couldn’t see anything, he could  _ pretend _ it felt like…

Who was he kidding, it felt like  _ nothing. _ Nothing but the endless press of invisible walls. Nothing but  _ cramped space, tight confines, squeezing—  _

“What do you even do all day? Lay in bed and look at the ceiling? Seems boring.”

“I asked for  _ five minutes, _ Claude.  _ Five minutes of silence. _ Shut up.”

“Fine, yeah, whatever.” Wasn’t like he could keep track of time as he was. He floated back to his feet and resumed pacing.  _ This is better than it could be, _ he reminded himself.  _ Anything _ was better than being fully trapped in his dragonstone. As cramped as he was now, it paled in comparison to being completely  _ in _ the stone. At least Edelgard was finally responding to him. At least he wasn’t a true ghost, unable to be seen or heard by anyone ever again. No wonder Begalta liked talking with him. Having  _ anyone _ real to talk with grounded him in reality. Without the majority of his physical senses, concepts like  _ time _ and  _ existence _ were hard to grasp.

‘Resting’ in his dragonstone was… weird. It was reminiscent of Begalta’s bleedthrough memories in Failnaught. His dragonstone was cramped in no simple terms. It was meant to hold a dragon’s power, not a human soul. Dragons had a lot of power. Even tailored to a human like him it had plenty of space for dragon ‘essence’ or power or whatever. There was plenty of space. Just, not in a way meant for him to fit. It was like he had to cram himself into an empty bookshelf. Sure, thousands of books could be stored on the many shelves, but  _ he _ wasn’t thousands of small entities. He was one Claude, and one Claude was much bigger than one book. One Claude could only fit into one teeny tiny shelf. It was the only conclusion he could come to. His soul wasn’t enough to fill the dragonstone but it didn’t belong in it either. Even when he ‘walked’ around outside of the stone, he still felt claustrophobic. His guess was that his ‘soul’ was still in the stone and it was his consciousness being projected outside. 

Guessing was all he could do.

At least his soul wasn’t floating off into the void or disintegrating. All things considered it could be a lot worse. At least he wasn’t trapped deep beneath the surface for all of eternity. He didn’t know if his body survived. Thales  _ sucked out his soul. _ Could a body survive without a soul? Could a body survive the process itself? Even if his body did still live, how was he supposed to get back into it? With any luck it would be instinctual, but his usual crystal clear knowledge of what to do with crests was worryingly hazy.

“How did Shambhala even make it into folklore? Some of the prophecies were eerily accurate, but when you have a million to cherry pick from anything can be accurate. At least the worst didn’t happen. ‘Endless army’ ‘Undead juggernaut’ ‘Ushering in the end times’, all of those would have been a pain to deal with. Gah, and Rhea already went and died! Where’s  _ her  _ ghost? I have more questions, dammit!”

“That was hardly  _ fifteen seconds.” _

“I’m bored! I can actually think clearly for once and I’m squandering the time with nothing to do!” He passed through a chair and laid down on the floor. Blathering was a balm to his sanity. “I guess I should be responsible and, I dunno, come up with reforms and tax codes.”

“Dear Goddess,  _ do not.” _

“Ugh, I do  _ not _ want to face the backlog I’ll someday have to deal with. Then again, if I really am dead, it’s not like I have responsibility anymore. Dammit, I have things I need to do still. I didn’t survive a month of literal torture just to get my soul sucked out!” He heaved out a long groan. He stopped as soon as he remembered he didn’t need air to groan. “I’m  _ bored.  _ Do you have any good books in here?” He pointedly eyed the small stack in the corner.

“Welcome to jail.” Edelgard did not take his hint to open a book for him. Back to his only form of entertainment then! Pestering Edelgard.

“I’m not the one that lost the war.  _ Ugh. _ This is awful.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I spared your life!”

“And now I hold yours in mine.” She tapped the chain around her neck. She mimed a ‘snap in half’ motion. He was mostly sure that was what she was implying; the motion didn’t translate well one-handed.

“I’d rather you didn’t  _ try _ to break that, but I’m very certain you can’t regardless. Besiiides, you like me now. We’re bonded pals now!”

“You cut off my hair, cut off my arm, and toppled my empire. Are you expecting pity from me?”

“It wasn’t personal. You started it. It was practical!”

“You cut off my  _ hair.” _

“Is that your biggest gripe? Seriously? It’ll grow back, out of everything that’s the least that was done to you. Ingrid argued to cut out your tongue, you know. She even suggested blinding you. I’m just saying, it could’ve been a lot worse!”

“And you could have never crawled out of whatever hole you came from, and I would have won this war.”

“Someone’s grumpy. Please, I get enough of that from Lorenz’s dad. Not the winning the war part, just the wishing I didn’t exist part. Actually, you’d be surprised how many people I get that exact sentiment from.”

“No, I don’t think I would. You are insufferable.”

He winked. If she  _ really _ thought that, she would remove his dragonstone. He could only be seen and heard when she kept physical contact with it. He felt a little bad for how lonely (or bored) she must be to put up with him. “C’mon, we’re buddies now. You don’t  _ really _ hate me.”

“You are driving me to insanity far faster than Dimitri.”

“Insanity buddies!”

“Edelgard?”

She jumped. “Yes?”

Lysithea entered the cell.  _ Yes! Finally! _ “Were you talking to yourself?”

“I have no idea what you are referring to. I… merely saw a bug. A gnat. Perhaps I am growing lonely and speaking to myself now.”

“You admitted to Teach that you’re going insane anyways, you don’t need to call me a gnat of all things.”

“A very annoying gnat.”

Lysithea slowly nodded. She set a tray of tea and sweets on the table. “I see. How are you doing? Since Shambhala.”

“I’m glad Thales is dead.”

“Agreed. Come, take a seat. I can provide better company than your gnat.”

“You  _ certainly _ can.” Edelgard glared at him. He twiddled a wave. He was sitting in her seat. Edelgard only hesitated for a moment before sliding into him. The moment his ‘body’ touched the dragonstone around her neck, back he was crammed into the tight thing. _ Dammit. _ He only had himself to blame. “How about yourself, Lysithea? You look tired.”

“You’re so mean to me, Eddie.” His constant chill vanished, leaving him without any sense of temperature. As much as he hated the cold, the  _ nothing _ temperature of his dragonstone might be worse. Another of his very limited senses once again gone. He wanted nothing more in the world than to sprawl out in his own body, snuggled up with his Deer.

Getting back out of the dragonstone was tedious and  _ beyond  _ uncomfortable. He got to work. It was getting easier now that he (somewhat) knew what he was doing. Over Edelgard’s heart and throat were two little ‘cracks’ he could wiggle his way through and back into the outside world. Jamming himself through them felt like being squeezed through a tiny tube, which only exacerbated his desperation to get  _ out _ already.

Stumbling back into the corporal world without a corporal body was as jarring as ever. He tried stretching his limbs to find  _ some _ crumb of relief only to fail. It never worked but he kept trying anyway. The image of his body  _ wasn’t _ a body and it wasn’t real. There were no ligaments to loosen and no muscles to massage. Just his soul jammed in a  _ tiny rock _ of all things.

He sat (floated in a sitting position) on the table. “Being able to eavesdrop is really boring with all this small talk. Oh hey, we’ve finally got our ‘formerly terminally ill’ club together! Nothing to bond us into bffs like crest bullshit. Right Eddie?”

Edelgard glared at him. He dramatically sighed and laid on top of the pastries. Lysithea, ignorant to his presence, continued to pull snacks from under/inside him. He bounced his eyebrows at Edelgard. She crossed her arm and didn’t take another snack. Her loss. If  _ he _ had the free ability to eat, he’d be stuffing his face. He didn’t even  _ like _ sweets and he was mentally drooling at the thought of eating them.

Lysithea paused her snack binge to drink some tea. “I’m still coming to grips with the fact that the people who tortured us are gone for good. You know how hard it is to slow down after everything.”

“I do. Switching from running an empire to having nothing to do but laze the day away is jarring. It’s not satisfying in the slightest.”

He rolled off the table (rather, mimed rolling off the table). “Go on, eat your fill. Never let it be said I’ve been a bad host.”

“I would say it alright,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” Lysithea asked.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Eat that one.” He pointed to a little tart thing. “Does that have apples in it? Looks like it. Hey, what’s it taste like? Describe it to me.” Edelgard swiped a different pastry, aggressively taking a bite. “I could interpret that as you trying to spite me. But I’m nice, so I won’t do that. C’mon, what’s it taste like? Does it have cinnamon in it? I think I like cinnamon. It’s been so long, I can’t even remember what it tastes like. Eddie, Eddie, is it good?”

She shut her eyes and pinched her brow.  _ “So,” _ she grit through her teeth, “did Claude survive?”

“That’s not a food description  _ at all.” _

Lysithea coughed on a pastry. “Wh-what makes you think he didn’t?”

“I saw his lifeless body at Shambhala. Has he been given a funeral yet?”

“Yeesh, you could at least sound  _ sad _ when you ask that. You’re not invited to my funeral. I don’t want to hear whatever speech you’d try to give about me.” He laid down under the table, pillowing his arms under his chin (slightly inside his chin, probably. It was hard to tell). “What kind of food do you think they’d serve at my funeral? Better be a huge feast. A record-breaking feast. If I’m dead, relay my final wish for a nation-wide feast to Lysithea.”

“Claude was injured. That is all.”

He sat up, poking his head up through the table. “Injured? Alas, my head has been severed from my shoulders! Now I am to be served along with pastries.”

“Will you shut  _ up,” _ Edelgard hissed.

“Excuse me?”

“Not you.” She leaned forward. “So he  _ does _ live, yes? Or are you just saying that?”

Lysithea crossed her arms, looking very mature for someone with crumbs stuck to her face. “He was injured. That is all the information currently available to the public.”

“If he does live…” Edelgard traced her finger around the rim of her teacup. “Am I correct to assume he is in a coma, entirely unresponsive?”

Lysithea froze. “What do you know.”

“I  _ know _ nothing, but I have my guesses. So: is he dead or not?”

Lysithea stood, toppling her chair behind her. “Tell me what you know this instant!”

“Peace. A certain bothersome gnat has been buzzing in my head. I happened to rescue this out of Shambhala.” She pulled out his dragonstone, making eye contact with him. “You better hold up your end of the bargain.”

He nodded. “I promise I will.”

“That belongs to Claude! We’ve been looking for this!” Lysithea reached for it, hesitating. “You had it all along. Maybe we can find him with this…”  _ Find him?  _ That was ominous. 

Edelgard passed his dragonstone exactly as he requested her to: ensuring the stone touched Lysithea’s palm before Edelgard let go. Whenever Edelgard stopped touching his dragonstone, the world went hazy and dizzy. After a short period he always woke back up inside the dragonstone. Ideally, if he stayed in physical contact with someone, he could stay outside. Hopefully.

The world went topsy-turvy alright. It didn’t take long to settle and best of all he wasn’t forced back into the stone. Success! Now he just needed to find out if Lysithea could hear him. Her eyes were focused entirely on the stone, squinting down at it.

He positioned his elbows to look like he was leaning them on the table, positioning his chin to look like that was leaning on his palms. Most of him was still hidden underneath the table, but this was an excellent position to greet a friend with. Edelgard’s eyes passed over him. Without touching his stone, she couldn’t see or hear him anymore. She shrugged, reading his mind. “You may want to look up.”  _ Yes, _ score for Edelgard! He must be growing on her.

“Why?” Lysithea looked up. Her eyes snapped to him.

He waved. “Boo.”

Lysithea screamed, dropped his dragonstone, and ran out of the room.

He stared after her in astonishment, then lowered his face into his hands.

“That went well.” Edelgard picked up his stone before he got too dizzy.

“She’s afraid of ghosts.”

“I see that.”

“Lysithea  _ better _ come back.” She was one of three people he could talk to, if his hunch was right. If it wasn’t for the fact that he took out Edelgard’s crests, she wouldn’t be able to hear him at all. His tampering with crests seemed to leave a ‘fingerprint’ or ‘crack’ that he could speak with them through. Lysithea clearly saw him, and Leonie might be able to as well.

Edelgard snacked on a pastry. “Nothing to do but wait, I suppose.”

He swallowed his envy. Edelgard had a whole platter of snacks to eat and he couldn’t eat  _ at all. _ “What’s that one taste like? Is it blueberry? Oh wow, I miss blueberries…”

“It’s sugary. You’ve been apart from your body for less than a week. Stop being so dramatic.”

“Less than a week? Huh.” It felt both longer and shorter than that. “Could’ve been years for all I can tell. Or a few minutes. Don’t ask, I don’t understand how this works either. I recommend you never get your soul sucked out, I do not recommend this experience. Come  _ on, _ food descriptions! Pleeease?” 

Edelgard aggressively shoved three pastries into her mouth at once.

“Ugh, fine, no food descriptions. An adult topic then. What’s your opinion on the current sugar tax imposed on Brigid? See, I’m thinking if it’s lowered, then…”

She let him blather until her mouth was no longer full. “Do you ever shut up?”

“This is my only way to keep track of time. Plus I can get some work done like this! Kinda. So, sugar taxes…”

“I will not speak to you about tax codes.”

“Okay, no problem. How about Dimitri being your step-brother—”

“We’re talking about sugar taxes or I’m chucking you in the corner.”

“Aww. You’re so mean to me.”

* * *

“Edelgard. Why is Lysithea saying you stole Claude’s ghost?”

“Professor. I assure you I stole nothing. Rather, I saved him.” She lifted his dragonstone. “Claude’s in here.”

“H-he’s dead?” Lysithea whispered from her spot next to the door.

“Stars Lys, I’m not going to hurt you!” He waved his arms in front of her. “And I  _ better _ not be dead!”

Edelgard shrugged. “It’s a long story. He can explain it better than me.”

“May I see him?” Teach held open their hands.

Being held by Teach felt odd. Different from Edelgard or Lysithea. “Teach! Can you hear me?”

Judging by the lack of reaction, apparently not. Teach raised his stone up to their ear. “Claude?”

“TEACH!” He cupped his hands together and yelled as loud as possible. “CAN I HAVE AN EXTENSION ON MY ESSAY?”

Nothing. If they heard him they would have reflexively told him  _ ‘under no circumstances.’ _ Edelgard outlined his theory about who could and couldn’t hear him. Good on her.

“Let’s go get Leonie then. Sh-she can listen to ghost-Claude!”

“Wow. Really feeling the love here.”

Teach shook their head. “She’s on a scouting mission looking for any leads on his whereabouts. She won’t be back until nightfall.”

Lysithea was as pale as the white parts of her hair. “Does it really have to be me?”

“It’s just me, Lys…”

“It’s just Claude, Lysithea. He won’t hurt you, ghost or not.”

Lysithea squeezed her eyes shut and took calming breaths. “Yes, you’re right. It’s just Claude.”

He took a few steps back, walking to the edge of his pathetic range to give Lysithea as much space as possible. Teach placed his dragonstone around Lysithea’s neck.

Lysithea kept her eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Lys.”

“BAH!” Her eyes popped open and she jumped in the air. He covered his mouth with his hand. He was trying  _ really _ hard not to tease her.

He waved. “Please tell me my body isn’t buried under Shambhala.”

“C-C-Claude! You’re a g-g-g…”

“My soul’s stuck. So not  _ really _ a ghost. It’s like when you catch your foot on a rock, but in my case it’s a little more involved. Nothing to be afraid of!” He cleared his throat. “My  _ body. _ I am dying to know, despite the fact that my spirit literally can’t die right now.”

“U-u-uh. Y-you’re in bed. B-body. Your body is. In your bed.”

“Oh thank  _ fuck. _ I was worried I’d need to haunt you in order to describe tax laws to Teach. Phew.”

“H-haunt me…?”

“Er, in a friendly way?”

Lysithea fainted.

“Oops.”

* * *

“Professor! What happened to Lysithea?!” Raphael dropped the load he was carrying. “Did she overwork herself in the library again?”

“She turned into a big scaredy-cat,” Claude muttered. At least he was getting a change of scenery ‘walking’ around.

“Claude spooked her.” He snickered at Teach’s pun.

“Claude?!”

Teach held up his dragonstone. “Yes. Here, take this to his body. Catch.”

“Hey! Don’t throw me!”

Raphael caught his dragonstone. “Sure thing! Oh yeah, this is what everyone’s looking for! Linhardt will — wait, Claude?!”

“You can see me? There goes my theory. Teach can’t see me though…”

Raphael squinted at him. “Hey, we match! Why’re you see-through? That doesn’t seem healthy at all! You  _ are _ Claude, right? Or are you Begalta?”

_ Match? _ Whatever that meant, it could come later. “I’m definitely Claude.  _ Begalta. _ Is she okay?”

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Teach waved and left, carrying Lysithea to the infirmary.

“We’ve been worried about you buddy! Hug time!” Raphael failed to physically touch him, instead sweeping him back into the dragonstone. He groaned from the cramped confines. “Claude? Where’d you go? You better not have disappeared again!”

“I’m in the rock,” he echoed to Raphael.  _ Great, _ now he needed to figure out how to wiggle his way out of the stone without the exit spots he inflicted on Edelgard.

Raphael jumped. “Wow! I heard you! But, like, in my head. Huh. How does that work?”

He ‘felt’ around for anything that would let him escape. ‘Looking’ up, he didn’t find a ‘crack’ like Edelgard had. There was a  _ gaping hole. _ Exiting out the hole was infinitely easier. He shuddered. It was easier but felt… weird. Which was worrisome. Unlike what he managed with Edelgard, something  _ clicked _ into place.

“You’re back!” Raphael grinned, scratching at his cheek. “Hey, were you trying to possess me? You gotta ask permission first!”

He held up his hands. “Nope, no possession on my part. I don’t think I can do that. Why don’t you take me to my body and I’ll try to explain what I know.”

He did his best to explain on the way to his room. Raphael, being Raphael, didn’t care about the specifics. The big guy was just ecstatic to see him. Despite being unable to physically feel warm, Raphael spread a different kind of warmth through him. His grin was contagious. 

Raphael burst into his room. “Guys! We found Claude!”

Hilda snapped awake and Lorenz jolted. “Where is he?”

“Yeah Raph, where  _ am I?” _ Claude gestured to his empty bed.

“I dunno Claude. Hey guys, where’s Begalta?”

Lorenz raised an eyebrow. “What was that? You don’t know where Claude is? You just said you did!”

“Of course I know where Claude’s at! Here, catch!”

“Stop throwing me!” His dizziness only lasted for a moment. Lorenz caught his stone. The noble raised a finger to scold Raphael, noticed Claude, yelped, and toppled out of his chair.

“Whoops, sorry Claude! I won’t throw ya again.”

“Wait, can you still see me?” Raphael wasn’t touching his stone though.

“Yeah?”

_ “Claude?!” _

“Hey Lorenz! Boo!” Lorenz startled a second time, dropping his stone on the floor. “Careful with that, yeesh.” Once again the world spun.

“Wh-what?” Lorenz looked back and forth between his rough position and Raphael. He stumbled closer but Lorenz didn’t track his position.  _ Interesting. _

“Can  _ you _ still see me, Lorenz?”

“Raphael, what was _that?”_ _Apparently not._

Raphael frowned. “Can you not hear him anymore?”

“Hear who? What’s going on?” Hilda looked around the room, also unable to see him.

“Huh. This is weird.” He exchanged a look with Raphael. “Why can you still see me?” He knelt down right in Lorenz’s face. “Lorenz! Hey! Pick me back up! Seriously, someone pick me up.” He was going to pass out really soon.

Predictably, Lorenz didn’t hear him. Not that it mattered, because Lorenz picked his stone up anyways. The moment Lorenz touched his dragonstone, the world stabilized. At the same time, Lorenz’s eyes snapped onto Claude. He screamed, flinging the stone away from himself. Given Claude was right in front of his face, maybe he deserved it. 

Hilda, the champ, caught his stone before it hit the ground. “What was that about?”

He rose from behind the bed. “Probably me.”   


_ “Ah!  _ Claude!”

_ “Thank you _ for being sensible and not chucking my soul around.”

Hilda nearly dropped his stone, fumbling it before cradling it up to her chest. “This has your  _ soul _ in it?!”

_ “His what?!” _

Hilda looked at him, down at the stone, back to him, back and forth a few more times. Then her eyes welled with tears.  _ Oh shit. _ “Claude you idiot! I’m going to throttle you!”

He inched closer. “Um, hey, I’m sorry…? It’s not really my fault…?”

“You big stupid dummy!” She reached out to either hug him or choke him. She was still holding his stone in her fist, which connected with him, which meant he was sucked back into it.  _ Dammit.  _ Hilda gasped. “Claude? Claude, where did you go?”

“I’m right here.” She yelped. “Hey, can Raph still hear me like this?”

Silence.

“I assume not. Hilda, you’re the only one I can hear right now so say something.”

“Oh. Um. Claude what the  _ fuck.” _

“I-don’t-know the fuck. Thales is a bastard. Thanks for cutting off his head, I’m sad I wasn’t there to see it. So Raph can’t hear or see me,  _ right? _ I’m blind right now. Literally.”

“Um, yeah. No, I mean. He can’t. Claude’s asking me some questions, I guess he can’t hear anyone else right now? No, he said he doesn’t know. I can’t see him, he’s gone.”

“I’m in the rock.”

“He says he’s in the rock?”

He sighed. It was good to not be in pain but the constant confinement was getting to him. He wanted back into his own body. He ‘looked’ up. To his shock there was another huge gap like before. This was a long curved line. Like before, it was easy to slip through. His chest tingled this time — right below his throat. 

“Ah! Claude!”

“Hey, you’re back buddy!”

Hilda rubbed at her scar. She did that when she was worried. It was odd that  _ he _ felt something in the same spot though… 

He yanked open his collar (he was wearing a strange mishmash of Fódlan and Almyran fashion). “Huh. So that’s pretty weird.” A copy of Hilda’s silvery scar was on his own ‘body’ in wicked red. He touched around his eye. “Do I have a scar here too?”

“Yep, like I said, we match!” Raphael told him. “Yours looks worse than mine though. Like it’s fresh, but not bleeding or nothing.”

Tugging open his collar and looking down, he took stock of some of the easier to see scars (he wasn’t going to undress in front of everyone). Down his side was Leonie’s gruesome scar. Digging into his stomach was Lorenz’s old wound. Ignatz’s arrow wound puckered his chest. There was a wound he didn’t recognize circling around his shoulder, as if the whole arm had been cut off and reattached.

The gap and the long curved line. Raphael’s scar and Hilda’s scar. They matched the ‘shape’ of his exit gaps from his stone.

“Throw my soul to Lorenz. I have a hunch.”

Hilda clutched his stone to her chest. “I’m not  _ throwing _ your soul!”

He rolled his eyes.  _ “Gently toss _ it then. Or walk over and hand it to him. You’re not going to break it, trust me.”

Hilda passed him to a reluctant Lorenz. She could still see him. Lorenz was recovered enough to scowl at him. “I cannot believe your continued tomfoolery. Have you no grasp of how worried we have been? Your reckless—”

“Hold your lecture. I’m going to try something, I’m curious. Let me know if you feel anything.”

“No!” Hilda snapped. “Last time you  _ ‘tried something’ _ you accidentally shoved another soul into your body and forgot how to speak!”

“Claude, whatever you plan to do, do  _ not _ involve me. Understood? I—”

He returned to the dragonstone and slipped out of the wide eye-level gash just as easy. Same as with Raphael and Hilda, he slipped in and out with only mild disorientation. 

“—Claude! What did I  _ just _ say?!”

He shrugged. “Drop my stone, I want to see if you can still see me.”

Lorenz could.

“Okay pick it up right now I should mention that I get really dizzy—”

_ “Claude!” _

* * *

“…and with the increased trade from the ports, we can increase our national budget significantly. Since we have to rebuild most of Faerghus anyways, we can interconnect more routes both in and outside the kingdom territories. Fishing will help the food deficit as well. Plus, if we—”

“Okay Claude, we’re here!” Hilda interrupted him, pointing to the shut double doors.

He glanced around. The trip from his room to the star terrace passed quickly. “Great. Real quick though, I’ve got some ideas about wyvern airways. I know Fódlan doesn’t really use them, but they’re great for places without roads. Could probably be used for pegasus too. If we enact—”

“Claude.” Lorenz interrupted him this time. “I have taken mental note of these proposals of yours and will review them. Now is not the time for this.”

“I can’t believe you spent all this time thinking up  _ policy changes,” _ Hilda grumbled.

He threw up his hands. “What else was I going to do? Pester Edelgard? Actually, I did that too.”

“You’re real chatty!” Raphael said.

“Yes, and he doesn’t even need air to speak.”

He crossed his arms, slightly missing and overlapping the image of both arms together. “I’m not that chatty.”

“You’ve been speaking nonstop.” Lorenz directed a flat look at him before opening the double doors.

Like a dream, he saw himself. He sat on a cushion, wrapped in blankets. His head was tilted upright towards the dim stars peeking past dusk. 

“Wow. I look like shit.” He eyed his friends, if only to look away from himself. “Do I always look that awful?”

“Worse typically.” Lorenz pulled no punches.

“Unless you’re all gussied up of course,” Hilda added.

“Oh! Here to see Begalta?” Flayn asked. Her and Seteth sat on a nearby bench. “She is attempting to commune currently.”

_ Commune? _ He tried to reach his body, slamming into his constricting leash. He squirmed a bit despite it bringing him no relief. He  _ needed _ back in his body  _ right this instant. _ “Hilda, get closer, you’re too far away.”

“Sorry!” Hilda approached his body as Lorenz and Raphael explained his situation to Flayn and Seteth (Lorenz did most of the explaining). Hilda hesitated as she approached his body. “Begalta, we found him.” She shook Begalta gently. Begalta didn’t even blink, gaze still fixed on the sky. “Begalta, hey, Starlight’s here. Wake up.”

He tried to ‘settle’ back into his body to no success. He passed into and through himself the same as he did through a chair. He directed Hilda to set his dragonstone in Begalta’s hand. All he got was dizziness.

“Begalta?” It didn’t take long for the dizziness to overwhelm him, tilting the world unrecognizably. Then the tightness returned and he was back in the stone. “Damn, that didn’t work at all.” He allowed himself a moment to grumble before getting back to work. There was no gap visible for him to escape out of. Not even a pinprick. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d assume he wasn’t being held at all. Maybe he fell on the ground? He couldn’t project himself outside if no one was holding him.

They would pick him up soon. Right? They  _ better _ pick him up soon. The walls of his dragonstone were tight on all sides.

“Hello? Anyone there? Begalta? Hilda?”

_ Silence. _

Okay. It probably hadn’t been very long outside. Maybe only a few seconds had passed. It felt like it’d already been hours.  _ No, _ that was his mind playing tricks on him. The darkness — or rather the absence of light, dark, and sight altogether — was getting to him. 

“Hello? Hey, someone pick me up already. Guys? This isn’t funny!” He tried to push his way out. As ever it was futile. “No, come on, let me out! Hey! Hilda! Lorenz! Raphael! Someone, get me out of here already!” No one could hear him. They had to hold him in order to hear him, and he wasn’t being held!

There was no sight, no sound, no sensation. He couldn’t push against the unyielding walls — there wasn’t any  _ part _ of himself to push with. That didn’t stop him from trying to lash out, to struggle with phantom limbs he didn’t have. “Let me out! Please!”   


What happened?! They wouldn’t have abandoned him.  _ They wouldn’t. _ Maybe his stone fell off the terrace? 

_ Plink, plink, plink goes his dragonstone as it falls, deep down the ravine. With every bounce it falls farther out of reach. It falls down farther than any pegasus or wyvern can navigate. Finally his trapped soul settles near the bottom, so deep that even light cannot reach. His stone lodges itself under a boulder, hidden away forever and ever, never to be found. His friends all search but no one can find him. They search for him for years. Eventually they understand he is a lost cause and give up. Time erodes more of the ravine, burying his dragonstone in more and more dirt and stone. As the seasons pass. His friends all die one by one. The few that remain find that the decades have covered their memory of him more thoroughly than dirt.  _

_ “What ever happened to Claude?” Hilda will wonder, her hair white as snow. _

_ “Claude…? Ah, I remember him,” Lorenz will reply, thumbing his thick grey beard.  _

_ “Who?” Raphael will ask, his muscles faded with age. “Claude… name rings a bell. Memory isn’t what it used to be…” _

_ Soon all of his friends will die and with them too his memory. Everyone he ever knew and loved lost to time while his mind rots away, oblivious to the world changing around him. Decades become centuries and centuries become millennia, and he is never found…  _

That… didn’t happen. Right? No, of course not. He had no way of being able to see old versions of his friends.  _ What had he been doing? _ Right, the star terrace. How long since he got stuck? Hours  _ had _ to have passed by now. Why wasn’t he picked up? Why weren’t they coming for him? Where were his friends?

Maybe a bird stole his stone. Birds liked shiny things. Maybe he was a pretty bobble in some bird’s nest. He wouldn’t be lost forever, the pegasi and wyvern riders would find him. Eventually. Unless the bird dropped his stone. Unless his dragonstone fell into the ocean, trapped under fathoms and fathoms of— 

“I miss Edelgard already.” He wanted to move again, to feel again! Were the walls getting smaller? Was he being crushed? Could his dragonstone shrink? It was shrinking, wasn't it. He couldn’t take this, he wasn’t going to last! _ Too tight, too tight! _ He needed out, he— 

He needed to  _ stop panicking. _ His friends would find him and they would help him. His confines weren’t  _ really _ shrinking, it was just his mind playing more tricks on him. He needed to distract himself. He could try counting again. He did that plenty before he got Edelgard to reply to him. It might not be a reliable way to count time though. Speaking and thinking were basically the same thing in his state, so any ‘pace’ to counting was impossible. He might be able to count from 1 to 100 in a single second. Or maybe an hour. 

“Help!” he shouted with every ounce of his soul. “I’m here! HELP!” He shouted as loud as possible. He didn’t need to breathe, so he kept shouting. If the others could hear even a whisper of his cry, maybe they would find him. He needed out. 

He couldn’t tell if he was still shouting or not. It wasn’t like he could hear anything. 

What if it was all in his head? Did he imagine everything with Edelgard? Was he buried under Shambhala? He was, wasn’t he. Or was he? Was Shambhala even real? Was anything real? Was he even Claude, or was that just something he came up with to hold onto his sanity? What if he was Begalta?  _ Was _ he Begalta? Oh  _ shit, _ he was, wasn’t he.  _ He _ was Begalta. Did Claude ever even exist? Was Claude just an imaginary friend conjured to keep himself entertained for all these centuries? Shit. He was Begalta, he was  _ Failnaught, _ the bow probably wasn’t even actually broken, this was just another fantasy to pass the endless endless time. His friends, his family, his entire history — none of it had ever been real. Was  _ he _ even real? Was  _ anything _ real?

_ “—oh fu—” _

Huh. That was a sound. Wasn’t it? Or did he just imagine it? For a second he thought he saw something, but that was impossible, because nothing was real.

Then the spec of light came again.

“—Claude, hey, Claude, oh hell, stop screaming, Claude, what’s wrong?! Guys, he’s screaming!”

Oh right. He was still shouting. He stopped doing that and surged towards the gap, tumbling into a vision of reality. He grasped at the ground, desperate to  _ feel _ anything, his hands passing through everything. He stretched his arms and legs but nothing changed, he was  _ still _ stuck, he  _ wasn’t real. _

“Claude!” Hilda was there, pink eyes wide as she knelt down in front of him. Lorenz and Raphael were close by too. “Are you okay?!”

He took a moment to gather his bearings. He  _ was _ Claude.  _ Right? _ “How long was that?” Leaning forward he tried to curl up to Hilda despite not being able to feel anything. “What happened?”

“I put your soul-rock in your hand, but nothing changed, so I picked you back up. Why were you screaming?”

“How long was I alone for?”

“I don’t know, a minute?”

_ “A Minute?!” _ He wanted to tear at his hair but the motion was pointless. “Days at least. Right? Days, years, centuries. I thought you lost me!” He grabbed at Hilda. Pretending he could hold onto her was  _ something _ at least. “Don’t let go of me again, I can’t take any more.”

“Okay. I won’t let go of you. Hey, hey, you’re safe, you’re okay, we’re going to get you back into your body.” Her eyes slid to his physical form. “So I assume whatever you tried didn’t work.”

“I was touching my body the whole time?” He watched as his body blinked, otherwise not reacting. “Where’s Begalta?”

Lorenz cleared his throat. “Earlier she stated she would attempt to commune with the stars. She also stated you are, ahem,  _ related _ to the aforementioned star. I require clarification on that after this is all over, Claude.” Despite his demand, he hovered as if he wanted to touch Claude. 

“Oh.” He looked up at the still darkening sky. “My body’s empty right now. I think I’ll need her help to get back. So…” he exhaled harshly despite not needing to do so, “we’re waiting until she gets back. Great.” He shot to his feet and began pacing. “That’s fine. I can wait until morning. What’s a few more hours? It’s all fine. This is great actually, Lorenz, I have more ideas about the way the government is to handle tax collection, see, the current method is rather archaic compared to other methods around the world, we should—”

“Stop!” Hilda interrupted him. “You’re talking too fast, we can’t understand you. Is this how you deal with stress now?”

“It’s not like I can cuddle this away!” he snapped back. “I can’t do or  _ feel _ anything, nothing even feels real.  _ Is _ any of this real?” He hunched in on himself, clutching his ribs and grasping nothing. He curled in on himself, squeezing his image together and hunkering into a tiny ball. “Let me out, it’s too tight…!”

“Easy bud, easy,” Raphael’s soothing voice echoed nearby. “We’ll get ya out. C’mon, breathe with me. In… and out…”

“I don’t  _ need _ to breathe!”

“Try for me. Just follow my lead. In… and out…”

He followed along, floating closer to the big man. He followed along and felt some of his panic fade. It was all still too tight, but the slow and steady rhythm of fake-breathing gave context to time. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Flayn asked. Seteth was beside his body, attempting to wake up Begalta without success. Flayn shifted her weight from foot to foot. 

“Just keep me distracted. Thanks Raph, you were right, that helped. I just need stuff to keep me grounded. The more I can focus on the topic the better.”

“That explains the politics,” Hilda muttered. “I guess we can listen to you blather. Flayn, he says he needs to be distracted.”

_ Right,  _ she couldn’t hear him. “Hey Hilda, pass my stone off to Flayn. Just — please don’t drop me. If my current theory is right, Flayn won’t be able to see me, but I should still be able to exist outside the stone. When Teach held me they couldn’t see me but—”

“Oh! Claude!” 

“Hi Flayn. Nevermind, again my theory is wrong.” He got up from Raphael and floated over to her. “Here, I’ll make it so you can see me without touching the stone.” His fingers hovered above his rock. “Hey, if I’m not out in a few seconds, make sure someone is holding me.” He took the plunge before he could regret it.

_ Cramped, cramped, cramped. _ A great gap was open to the left. He forced his way out, a split second of sensation acting as an anchor to his soul. He snatched his left sleeve, unable to touch, gaping at Flayn. “You had to use one of my silver vials.”

She nodded. “Indeed I did. I see that somehow is connected, yes?” She rubbed at her shoulder, right where his body mirrored a wound that must have taken off her entire arm.

“Say… how many of the other deer are in the monastery right now? How about we have a little stargazing party while we wait for Begalta.” He might not be able to touch anyone or anything, but nothing sounded more comforting than being surrounded by his friends. “This way everyone can stop worrying over my fate. In fact, I think I can be persuaded to tell a little story about the stars. About a young man on death’s door, and how his friends’ faith allowed him to reach the stars and meet a God…” He winked. “But I’ll only tell it once.”


	42. Sincere Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely spaced it last chapter in my rush to get something out before 2021, but I’ve got some fanwork to share! [Starlight Reborn](https://matchamaker.tumblr.com/post/637968587805638656/this-song-is-a-fanwork-and-gift-for-salt00-here-is) by Matchamaker. Give this music a listen, it’s really good! *o*

“Claude’s really in here?” Ignatz held up his dragonstone. The old arrow scar was easy to slip through. The connection  _ clicked _ as he passed.

“Yep.”

“AH!”

The other Deer burst into laughter. Ignatz was the last Deer to ‘connect’ with him. Even though his little ‘connections’ didn’t change his lack of physicality, he felt a little better.

“To think, this is irrefutable proof of souls. There are so many tests I want to run…” Linhardt was still mumbling to himself. 

“You can run those without my help,” Lysithea muttered. She was firmly in place on Raphael’s lap, still eyeing him warily. She didn’t spook like before, but she wasn’t comfortable with him.

“You don’t have to stay for my sake,” he repeated again.

Her scowl was more than enough of a response. “I’m staying! Besides, you aren’t  _ truly  _ a gh-ghost. You are just, as you stated, a spirit who is… inconvenienced. That is all, so there’s nothing to fear. Not that I’m afraid!”

“Who wants more blankets?” Leonie called as she entered the terrace, her arms filled with the aforementioned blankets.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, drifting to hide in the pile of blankets, only his head poking out. It was a testament to how used to weirdness everyone was from him that his ghost-antics were so readily accepted. 

Leonie passed out the blankets with Claude ‘helping’ her out. Really, it was exactly what he’d been wanting for months. All of the Deer taking a much needed break together. It was just a shame he couldn’t snuggle up to anyone. 

Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Marianne collected one of his prepared food bottles. She tenderly maneuvered his body, feeding him with a practiced hand despite his catatonic state. He looked away from the surreal image.

He floated over to Flayn. “Seteth isn’t feeling left out, is he?”

She giggled. “I should hope not. He and the professor are keeping one another company.”

“Whoa,  _ what!? _ No way. Him and  _ Teach?!” _ He was torn between feeling scandalized that his brother hooked up with Teach and being annoyed he hadn’t known.

“Oh, no no no! Nothing like that.” She pouted at him. “Though he certainly could use someone in his life aside from myself. Perhaps he would be less overbearing…” Her pout turned into a sly smirk. “In fact, between yourself and Begalta, he  _ has _ seen fit to allow me more freedom.”

“Let me guess: he has no idea.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Psh, what a worrywart!”   


Flayn giggled, but then her expression fell. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ah. I suppose this feels… strange. To have such a celebration. Rhea is not expected to recover.”

He winced. “I thought she was dead?”

“As good as. It has yet to be announced. Please do not inform the others.” She tried to smile and wore it too well. “Do not allow me to bring down your night.”

He swallowed his conflicted feelings about Rhea. “You know, where I’m from, funerals are a joyous occasion. They’re meant to celebrate one’s life. There are great feasts, rowdy parties, and happy stories shared all around a bonfire.”

“That sounds very nice. Quite different from Fódlan.”

“You have no idea how unprepared I was when it came to my grandfather’s funeral.” He tried to place a hand on Flayn’s shoulder with predictable results. 

“Do not worry about me. Tonight is to be a night of enjoyment and stories. Perhaps I will tell a story of Rhea, of a good memory…”

“Claude! Get over here you crazy ghost!”

“He’s not a ghost Leonie, stop calling him that!”

Claude winked at Flayn. “Looks like I’m being summoned. Join me?”

“Of course.”

He and Flayn settled in among the piles of blankets and Deer. The press of confinement was ever present, but it was much more bearable with so many people around. 

“Alright, alright, settle down everyone. I promised a story and I intend to deliver.”

Lorenz cleared his throat. “You being ‘related’ to a star is metaphorical, yes?”

“It’s complicated.” He paused, gathering his courage. “Once upon a time, there was a boy born in a union that went beyond borders…”

His life story spilled from his phantom lips. He told them about the boy’s discovery of his strange magic known as a ‘crest’, and the inconvenient aftereffects. About the boy’s travel to a new land with new rules, learning more about the energy that wracked his body. About his slow realization that like the rest of him, his crest too was different and unknown. About the calming presence he found in the most unlikely of places. About his meeting with a great dragon who’s former occupation was that of a saint. 

He faltered when it came to explaining his trip among the stars. Instead of speaking words that could never live up to the vision, he merely pointed up at the stars. He told them nearly everything: his weak tether to life, his path among the graveyard of dragons, his place at the feet of the First King. He explained everything he knew: the King’s Mark upon his body, his connection and distant relation to the celestial body, his mixed blood and the unintended consequences. He told them every unbelievable detail: about Nabateans, about Manaketes, about the genocide of one and the extinction of the other. About crests and relics and dragon souls, about the foreign library jammed in his head.

He told them everything. He bared his soul to them — because hadn’t he done that countless times already? They’d seen him at his worst and at his best, and they remained by his side. He bared each and every secret about himself.

…all except for one. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was lingering fear. Maybe he just didn’t know how to say it. He left out the cultural significance about his King’s Mark, he left out who his parents were, and he left out the detail that he was a prince.

* * *

Hilda couldn’t say anything Claude said shocked her. It certainly  _ should _ have. By now though she was just  _ so _ desensitized to the weirdness that followed Claude’s heels like an eager puppy. Even as his transparent ghost told them about crests stemming from  _ dragon blood _ of all things, it couldn’t get any weirder. And really, he’d been drip feeding his secrets for months now. At least she finally knew why he laughed at her for assuming his  _ blessing from a fucking literal star-god-whatever  _ was a slave brand.

It took hours for him to finish. Afterwards, it took hours to answer everyone’s questions. Throughout it all, Claude looked lighter than she’d ever seen him.

Dawn slowly peeked across the horizon. Hilda raised her head and closed her eyes.  _ ‘Thank you,’ _ she silently prayed to the stars. 

“I cannot do it…” Claude whispered. “I can’t do it.”

“Do what?” she asked him. He shook his head and pointed to his body.

“Without an anchor, I cannot travel the stars.” Claude’s physical body rasped, head bowed low and fists clenched tight.

“Wouldn’t want you getting lost,” Claude replied to himself.

Begalta gasped, twisting to him. She stumbled upright, taking a shaking step towards him.  _ “Starlight?” _

He smiled. “Hey Begalta. I came as fast as I could. Sorry I'm late.”

Begalta drifted to Claude’s spirit like a ghost. They were twins, yet so different.

‘Claude’ was skeletal, face gaunt and hollow. His eyes were dull and half-lidded. Under the loose robes his body was wasted and thin, wracked with little shakes. His hair was getting long, greasy and unwashed. His face twisted wretchedly, tears streaming down his sunken cheeks. He looked so old and sick compared to his mirror.

Claude was hale, face sharp and hearty. His eyes glowed, the left eye covered in a mockery of Raphael’s scar. Under his strange garb he was strong and muscular, every step solid. His hair was getting long with an even longer braid, the rest of it wild and wavy held back with a strange headscarf. He smiled softly, free from pain and hardship. He looked so young and alive compared to his mirror.

“Thanks for taking care of me while I was away, partner. Do you know what to do? It’s a bit fuzzy on my end.”

Begalta nodded. “Thank you. For coming back to me.” At Claude’s signal, Hilda passed his rock to Begalta. Begalta held out Claude’s withered hand. Claude reached back with his unmarred hand. Both of their eyes slipped shut. Silver sparks glittered through Claude’s ghostly body. He inhaled, exhaled, and began to fade as he drifted further towards his body. In one last shower of silver, his ghost vanished. His body swayed, then fell back onto a pile of blankets.

“Claude?”

His brow furrowed, then his eyes slid open. The faint green glow had never looked so bright. He wrapped his arms around himself and groaned. “I’m never taking this body for granted ever again.”

“Claude!” She surged for him, snatching him up in a hug. She wasn’t the only Deer to do so. 

* * *

All around him was warmth and comfort. If pain existed, it was only as a distant memory. Familiar smells wafted past riding on the balmy wind. A loose but heavy comforter draped on top of him and his friends. Hilda snuggled into his left, Ignatz his right. Leonie let him sleep on top of her. Nearby chatter from Linhardt and Lysithea washed over him in low, soft tones. Flayn was humming to herself as well, the tune pleasant and airy.

As his eyes fluttered open, there was no clinging fatigue or lead weights to drown him. The endless night sky greeted him with uncountable twinkles. Not a single cloud covered the vibrant spill of celestial glitter. The heavens spread open in manifest brilliance, welcoming him to witness their splendor. Their silent language whispered into the depths of his mind, bringing with them a reminder of hope.

Leonie yawned and cracked her jaw. She ruffled a hand through his hair. Ignatz stirred and Hilda tucked closer beside him. If he could have one moment last for eternity, he would choose this one. All that was missing was Marianne, Raphael, and Lorenz.

“Without the matrix, we might be able to…” Lysithea trailed off. Silence overtook their group. It was a comfortable silence. “Where… are we?” His eyes lazily drifted to Lysithea. She was frowning, slowly looking around.

“We’re, ah…” Linhardt too frowned. “Strange. I’m not sure where we are.”

Leonie yawned again and sat up, securely bringing him up with her. He snuggled against her. Hilda whined and grumbled. Ignatz sat up too. “What’s up?”

“Oh, you are all awake,” Flayn said, looking down from the sky. She kicked her feet back and forth off the ledge of the rooftop. “I have been wondering the same myself for some time now. I believe I was doing something else, though I cannot recall what. Then I was here.”

“Aww, come on, I  _ just _ got to sleep,” Hilda grumbled and sat up. “We literally just put Claude to bed. I pulled an all-nighter, I deserve some rest!”

“It’s beautiful…” Ignatz whispered, eyes darting everywhere.

“Who cares if it’s beautiful?” Lysithea snapped as she stood. “We’ve been kidnapped!”

“I do not think that is what has happened. Were we kidnapped, would our napper have given us such comfortable accommodations?” Flayn gestured to the thick layers of soft blankets they all rested on, then to the piles of pillows.

“It’s rather strange.” Linhardt shrugged and fell back into a pile of pillows. “This  _ is _ nice. You all can worry about whatever’s going on. I’m taking a nap.”

Leonie huffed a laugh. “Typical Lin. This really is your dream spot.”

Linhardt hummed. Then his eyes snapped open. “I’m not tired. Something’s wrong.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I suppose I feel… pleasantly drowsy?”

“Huh. Now that you mention it, that’s how I feel,” Hilda said.

“I feel pretty good,” Claude murmured, reaching over to tug Hilda a bit closer.  _ Yay, _ physical touch and physical body!

“Hah. If Claude’s feeling fine, maybe we’re… all… uh…”

He slowly blinked at Hilda, who stared at him with wide eyes. “What?”

Leonie bit out a gasp. “Oh shit.  _ Claude.” _

He perked up a bit, shaking his head to clear it. “What? What’s wrong?” His braid slapped him in the face. He reached up and felt it, blinking rapidly. He looked down at his hand, free from emaciation. “Huh?”

Hilda thumbed below his eye. “You’ve got Raph’s scar again. You look like your ghost. Just… solid now.”

“H-hold on, what’s that mean about us?!” Lysithea shot up. “Did we all die or something? What’s going on?”

“Calm down,” he said behind a yawn. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for this.” He patted Hilda’s shoulder, which was just as solid as he expected it to be. Flexing his fingers, he found the effortless dexterity of his youth. Tendons and muscles moved in tandem, his movement weighty in a way that had been absent during his ghostly adventure.

“Mmm… an explanation for what?” Marianne sleepily asked.

“Marianne?! When did you get here?”

Marianne stretched. “Hm? Oh, um, where are we?”

“You literally were not here a few seconds ago,” Linhardt said. “Is this some form of magic? A strange warp spell?”

Marianne rubbed her eyes, blinking and looking around. “Oh my. I was at my desk a moment ago, I think.”

“Great!” Lysithea threw up her hands. “Just great! Is this the work of Those who slither in the dark? Some of them must have survived!”

Something caught his eye. The pattern of the blanket wrapped around him, Hilda, and Ignatz was familiar.  _ Nostalgic. _ He thumbed the old blanket between his fingers, feeling the soft threads. The other blankets and pillows were familiar too. Some of them he recognized from his current room in typical Fódlan styles. The majority of them were  _ Almyran _ patterns. Blankets he grew up with.

He looked out across the horizon and saw his hometown. This was his favorite spot as a child. Disentangling himself from Leonie, he searched for his old handholds. He found them exactly where he expected them. 

“Claude? Where are you — Claude?”

He slunk down and entered his old bedroom through his open window.

“Guys, Claude found a secret door or something!”

“A window,” he quietly corrected. “This isn’t real.”

“Feels real to me,” Leonie said next to him, making him jump. “What is this place?” She poked at the fist-sized statue of a wyvern that he got for his seventh birthday.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “My old bedroom.” He ghosted through his room. It was a mix of years. Some things he remembered from when he was really little and other things he owned just before he left for Fódlan. It was unreal. He sat on his too-small child-sized bed. “I haven’t been here in years.”

“Huh? You’re saying we’re in Almyra then?” Hilda asked. A thrill sparked down his spine. It was so strange for that secret to be spoken of so openly and casually. He liked it.

Ignatz picked up a book and opened it. “I can’t read anything.”

“That’s because it isn’t written in Fódlan’s language.” He gestured for Ignatz to pass the book. “Oh. I remember this one. It was an old favorite of mine…” He opened the book and found it illegible. It had been a very long time since he last read Almyran, but surely he didn’t forget…?

“We are in a dream,” Flayn intoned. “Claude’s dream, specifically.”

“What? How does that—”

The world went black. Dull pain flickered through his bones as a hand at his shoulder shook him. He groaned into Leonie’s neck. She groaned back.

“Two hours, Claude.”

“Lorenz?” Hilda murmured.

Something over in the book corner shifted. “Linhardt, wake up.”

“Don’t shake me. I’m awake already. Unfortunately.”

“My apologies,” Lorenz whispered. “It was not my intention to wake everyone.”

Leonie sat him up, still underneath him. He licked his lips and let Lorenz feed him.

“Did any of you have a strange dream?” Ignatz piped up.

“I knew it wasn’t just a dream!” Hilda shouted. “The weird city! The bedroom! You saw it too!”

“Curious. We all shared a dream,” Linhardt murmured, yawning. “Yet it felt real. But when Claude woke up, we did too.”

“What are you all referring to?” Lorenz asked.

Hilda gasped. “Wait, will this happen again? Don’t get me wrong, the dream was nice, but Claude wakes up  _ every two hours.” _

“This requires further testing.”

Lysithea blindly reached for Linhardt. She patted his shoulder, then his cheek, then smooshed her hand against his mouth. “Shut up. I’m going back to sleep.”

The door creaked open as Marianne peeked her head in. “Oh, everyone’s awake. Sorry.”

“Mari! Did you have the dream too?”

“I, um, fell asleep at my desk. Then I was somewhere else, with all of you…?”

“Discuss this in the morning! Some of us are trying to get back to sleep!”

Claude tried to keep his eyes open as the jar was taken away, but the fatigue was too much. The voices of his friends faded completely. 

All at once the struggle to keep his eyes open vanished. He blinked, the weight of fatigue lifted from his shoulders. Sensation entirely dropped away. He patted his chest for Begalta or his dragonstone, finding nothing. His hand passed through his chest.

_ “Not this again,” _ he tried to say, not a breath of sound passing his lips. He spread his fingers in front of him, the swaying image of his Almyran bedroom visible through his transparent hands. His hands were barely visible at all.  _ Shit. _ He wasn’t cramped, at least. 

He drifted around the room, lost on what to do. This had to be a dream. Right? It couldn’t last forever. His room twisted and spun, fading in and out, all just as unreal as he was. Nothing was in focus and nothing could touch anything. He might as well be standing in a waterlogged picture frame. 

The world lurched. The swaying halted so abruptly as to throw him to the floor.  _ The floor, _ that he could suddenly feel! 

“So this  _ is _ going to be a recurring ordeal, I suppose,” Lysithea said, sitting on his bed. “It must be triggered by the connection you formed with us as an inconvenient disconnected spirit.”

“‘Ghost’ is the word you’re looking for,” he said from the floor. “Much less of a mouthful.”

“I told you already, you were not a gh—” She froze as soon as her eyes fell on him. “Claude. Why are you transparent again?”

He re-examined his hand. She was right — he was still transparent, just barely. He pressed his hand against the floor. It met resistance, but as he kept pushing it slunk down into the floorboards. Standing up, he found himself nearly weightless. He couldn’t quite float anymore, but only just.

A ripple zipped down his spine as weight piled onto his body, dropping him to the floor  _ again. _ He patted the hardwood, his hand remaining firmly on top of the surface.

“Fascinating. Back here, once again,” Linhardt said.

“Are you okay?” Lysithea asked as she knelt beside him. She touched his shoulder, which was a good sign. “You’re solid again.”

He nodded. “I’m not hurt, it was just unexpected.” He squinted at her, everything just a touch blurry still. “Another mystery to add to the pile.”

He felt it again as the world sharpened into focus. He inhaled deeply. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t breathing before. “Welcome back, Leonie. Guess this is a thing now.”

Within the span of a minute, Hilda, Ignatz, and Marianne returned to the dream. With each of them the dream grew more stable and realistic. It took longer for Flayn to return, and eventually Lorenz and Raphael joined as well. Their dream-discussion was cut short when Seteth woke him up for his meal.

“Every two Goddess-damned  _ hours!” _ Hilda groaned.

* * *

“Just let me eat  _ one bite _ by myself.” He couldn’t look away from the small plate. “I can lift a fork.” Probably. It would be  _ nice _ if  _ someone _ allowed him to use his dragonstone for this, but  _ noooo, _ this wasn’t ‘important’ or ‘vital.’

_ ‘Love you too,’ _ Begalta whispered to him, smacking him with a slap of love.

“You can barely lift your empty hand,” Lorenz argued.

“Just  _ one _ forkful. You can feed me the rest.  _ Please?”  _ He stuck out his bottom lip and tried to look extra pitiful.

“There’s no harm in letting him try,” Lysithea argued in his favor. 

“Hmph. Very well. Don’t cry to me when you drop your fork on the floor.” Lorenz passed him a fork. His hand shook violently as he held it, but he  _ held it. _ Lorenz then placed the plate on his lap.

He licked his lips.  _ Solid food. _ To anyone else, the single scrambled egg might look pathetic. But to  _ him, _ it looked better than anything he’d ever eaten. Collecting a forkful of egg proved to require more dexterity than he currently had. Lorenz said nothing as he guided Claude’s wrist and held his hand steady. Piece of egg securely on his fork, he tried to lift it to his mouth. The fork was deceptively heavy and his arm almost failed him more than once.  _ But he did it. _

As soon as the egg was in his mouth, his arm dropped to the bed and his fork fell from his limp fingers. He leaned back and moaned around the bite of _heavenly food._ _He could eat again!_

“Claude?”

“I’m never gonna take eating for granted ever again,” he sniffled as he failed to savor the bite. His hunger was somewhat tamed now.  _ Somewhat. _ He was still  _ always _ hungry,  _ always  _ craving food. But he had (decent) control over it. Sadly, he swallowed the bite far too quick. He wanted to take another bite but even he had to admit his arm didn’t have the strength for a second one.

“Those better be happy tears,” Lysithea said, brushing at his cheek.

“It’s  _ really  _ good,” he sniffled.  _ Anyone _ would cry manly tears in the face of such  _ delicious _ food. Lorenz brought another tiny bite of egg to his lips. Though the small amounts of chewing left his jaw tired, it was  _ so, so worth it. Yessss. _ “How often can I eat food now?”

Lysithea answered. “According to Marianne, you should be okay to eat a little bit once a day. Technically you  _ can  _ be taken off your 2-hour meal plan, but your recovery will go faster if we keep you on it.”  _ A solid meal, once a day!  _ “So long as you don’t do anything  _ stupid,” _ she paused to give him a stern look, “we should have you looking healthy at a distance by the time of your coronation.”

“Don’t talk about that while I’m eating. Eating is a happy time.”

She blessedly fell silent as Lorenz fed him at a slow pace. It was  _ so good. _ He knew objectively that he wanted to be out of bed and  _ doing _ things again, but for now he just existed in the moment. Lysithea was a warm spot of goodness snuggled into his side. Lorenz was feeding him warm, tasty, solid food. Begalta’s constant good mood was contagious, as was her endless wellspring of love and affection. He knew somewhere under all the happy layers was a lot of pain, but it didn’t hurt him now. His friends were too good to him. They’d been spoiling him ever since he got back into his body. The experience wasn’t worth his newly acquired terror of tight spaces, but otherwise he thought he came out of the situation well for himself.

Unfortunately — as his re-acquired sense of time was to allow for — time passed. Eventually the egg was all gone and he was  _ divinely  _ sated. He would  _ gladly  _ eat an entire carton of eggs, but the solid food left him more satisfied than liquid. 

“Now that you are done, we must speak of your coronation at the end of the month.”

He turned his head and groaned into Lysithea’s neck. She held no sympathy for him. “You’re about to become the co-ruler of this continent and all you do is whine about it. People literally died to get this position, Claude! You and the professor will be the first rulers of the united Fódlan since the founding of Faerghus.”

“I’m not ungrateful. I just” —  _ need to go home —  _ “don’t think I’m the right guy for the job.”

Lorenz burst into an un-noble-like laugh.  _ “You? _ Claude, there is no one more qualified than you! Though I, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, have performed an  _ excellent _ job filling in your position, you are irreplaceable. You have  _ literal _ divine favor. Aside from your atrophy, you have shown clear proof you were — dare I say it — born for the position of king.”

_ That’s the problem. _

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lysithea asked.

_ Damn, _ he said that out loud. “It’s not important.” He couldn’t go home.  _ Physically. _ He was still dependent on the care of his friends. That didn’t even include what would happen if he showed up to his father’s court looking like, well,  _ himself. _ If news of his emaciated body got out, his father would have no choice but to disinherit him on the spot. That didn’t even include whatever chaos must be ravaging Almyra with his supposed death.

He wondered what the ratio of celebration to grief was. On one hand, next to no one wanted him to be king. But on the other hand, he was the only King’s Mark alive aside from his father. He had a hunch a certain meddling star was at fault for that, for whatever incomprehensible reason. It was possible someone had been born in the six years he’d been away, but—

Hell.  _ Six years? _ He couldn’t decide if that was  _ ‘Oh hell, it’s been six whole years’  _ or  _ ‘Holy shit, it’s been  _ **_only_ ** _ six years?!’ _ To think, six years ago he’d been a perfectly healthy teen with his whole life ahead of him. 

Lysithea gently shook him. “You spaced out again.”

“Ah. Sorry. Was just thinking.” The empty egg plate still laid in his lap. “It’s ridiculous. I’ll be crowned king, but I won’t even be able to partake in my own feast! It’s a tragedy.”

Lysithea rolled her eyes hard enough he was certain he heard it. “Of course you’re thinking about food. Forgive me for thinking otherwise.”

“Hey, next time I get food, can I have one of the blueberry pastry things you gave Edelgard?” He licked his lips, endless cravings returning to the forefront of his brain. “Add cinnamon into it! Please? I can’t remember what cinnamon tastes like.”

“You’ll have to work your way up to sweets.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or are you a little boy begging for candy?”

“Depends. Will begging get me candy? In that case, then yes. Unlike you, I’m not insecure about my age.”

“Hey! I’m not—”

“What did Claude do this time?” Hilda saved him by entering the room, immediately kicking off her boots and joining him on the bed.

“I’m innocent, as always.” He leaned against her, savoring the blessing of warmth and friendship. Begalta still hadn’t quite fixed his body’s overreaction to his trusted friends. He was getting better at resisting it, but it was a slow process. “Hi.”

“I see he’s in his puppy mood.” Hilda carefully carded through his hair.

“I ate an egg,” he happily relayed to her. She probably knew, but it bore repeating. “Mm… Hey, Lorenz, there’s room on the bed.”

Lorenz chuckled. “I do believe you’ll leave ration entirely if I do. As it is, I should return to my duties.”

“Awww, but I’ll miss you!”

“Goddess only knows why I find your whining endearing.” Lorenz patted his cheek. “The ladies are more than enough for you. Get some rest. I cannot cover your post forever.”

“Hilda, you sabotage me.” They all knew he lost the majority of his braincells being cuddled by two or more people. Not that he could bear to care. One cuddler meant he was warmish and free from pain. Two cuddlers meant he began to lose it. Three or more and he turned into soup. Happy and sleepy soup, but soup nonetheless. They liked to exploit his weakness when he was reluctant to rest.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Lorenz, Hilda started rubbing circles into his back. “I got a letter from my brother. It involves private information. Do you want Lysithea to leave?”

With a serious topic at hand, some of his brain fog receded as Begalta helped him focus. She was getting better at not accidently love-bombing him (though still did it frequently on purpose). “Is it about my parents?”

“No. It’s actually from Nader the undefeated, addressed to me.”

He frowned.  _ Odd. _ “Let me see it.”

_ To Hilda V. G., _

_ The nation of Almyra grieves for the loss of your esteemed duke. Almyra extends the highest of commemorations of your victory over Adrestia. I am addressing the letter to you specifically, as I am uncertain as to whom will hold power in the new united Fódlan. Your brother has been evasive on that front, and I am uncertain how far the news of Claude’s loss has reached. I understand the need to keep things quiet during wartime. In honor of the late duke himself, I intend to open diplomatic relations with the new unified Fódlan. I ask of you the favor of putting me in touch with your current leader(s?), preferably ones that will not reject my offer outright.  _

_ I will be frank with you. This form of diplomacy is not my specialty (obviously, given that I am a general). If only you knew of my mountain of crumpled drafts. But if it is through my hand treaties will be formed — if I am the last to bear the torch of the dream of star-crossed lovers — then it is my honor to do so. _

_ Of all his friends, it was you whom Claude spoke of as his closest companion. For that alone, I humbly thank you from the deepest pit of my heart. I watched the boy grow up. His folks would thank you in my stead if they could. If I may selfishly ask one more favor of you, I have a request. With my letter I have sent incense. It is tradition where he grew up that incense be burned at the place of one’s burial. Though it is not much, this scent was once his favorite. _

_ –Current Regent of Almyra, Nader the Undefeated. _

Two thoughts warred for dominance in his head. “I’m awful,” he murmured aloud. It might not be obvious to anyone else, but as someone who grew up around the boisterous man, Nader’s words were steeped in grief. 

_‘His folks would thank you in my stead’_ and _‘If I am the last to bear the torch of the dream of star-crossed lovers’_ and _‘Regent of Almyra’._ _Where were his parents?_ It was one thing if they dropped everything to come collect his body. If they’d done that, they should have appeared over a month ago.

Shaking, he tried to sit up. Hilda took none of his ‘nonsense’, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and giving him a stern look. “You should be resting.”

“I’ve been resting all day.” His head tilted against Hilda’s arm. “At least help me sit up. I need to send a reply message. Nader deserves that much from me.” Not even the pleasant cuddles would stupefy him into letting this go. “I need to know more. Hilda… I think…” He reread the page again. “I think my parents are dead.”

Hilda’s eyes widened. “Oh Goddess, I’m so sorry Claude.” She glanced down at the letter, frowning. “You’re sure?”

“Nader wouldn’t have mentioned it outright in a letter to you.” Friends with Holst or not, Nader wouldn’t be leaking any sensitive information out to Fódlan. If it got out that the king and queen were dead, that put Almyra in a dangerous position.  _ Hell, _ Almyra was probably in the middle of a dangerous situation internally. “His words imply it though.”

Yet the idea of both of them being dead was crazy. They were  _ strong. _ The strongest people he knew. They’d always been untouchable. It was hard to think of them as mortals like anyone else. He couldn’t believe they were dead. He didn’t  _ want _ to believe they were dead. To think he might never see them again… he’d been through this grief already. 

He steadied himself. “I need a letter written. Nader’s been left unaware of my fate long enough.”

“I’ll do it,” Lysithea said, gripping his hand. “Just dictate it to me and I’ll make sure it sounds coherent.”

“And I’ll make sure it goes to Nader as soon as possible!” Hilda added, switching places with Lysithea. 

“Thank you both.” He carefully thought up his response as Lysithea gathered ink and parchment. Then he began, in fits and starts, searching for all the correct words. Lysithea and Hilda helped him when he got stuck.

_ Nader, _

_ Forgive me for the grief I have caused you. My recovery has been difficult and slow. It pains me to admit that I have been in and out of lucidity for over a month. You saw my body — I’ve been bed bound, unable to so much as lift my hand for the longest time. I am still unwell. Above all else, I am alive. I am recovering. It will take time, but I will recover completely.  _

_ Hilda showed me your letter. Thank you. For everything. For thinking of me, even though I’m sure it hurt. I’m sorry I sent you away when I did. It was selfish and unfair of me. If it makes you feel any better, I got much, much worse before I got better. You wouldn’t have wanted to see me then. _

_ Where are my parents? What has happened to their household? I’m still needed in Fódlan and am too weak to travel. _

_ Thank you for the incense. My spirit (and physical body) appreciates the familiar smell. _

The process of writing the letter — from the first, second, and final draft — took over an hour. 

“You’re sure you want to say all this?” Hilda pointed to the top half. “As secure as Holst’s mail methods are, it’s gonna be  _ real _ bad if someone finds out you’re sick like this.”

“I won’t sign it as Claude von Riegan. Lysithea, help me write this? It’s short.”

She steadied his wrist, placing the quill between his fingers. Bringing his hand to the paper, she kept him from shaking as much as possible as he messily scrawled his birth name.

_**خالد** _

Last time he wrote out his name, he immediately burned it. Back on what he believed would be his last day alive. It felt like a lifetime ago. Then, it had been written with elegant strokes, artful in presentation. Now it was hardly legible. The lines shook, the ink blotted, a mistaken scratch marred the whole name. Hardly legible was  _ still legible. _ Flawed and damaged,  _ Khalid _ was still  _ Khalid. _

“Anything else?” Lysithea asked, pulling the quill from his hand.

“That will do. Thanks.” He hesitated. “Actually… could one of you light those incense? I did tell Nader I enjoyed them after all. Don’t want to be a liar.”

The familiar smell filled the room as Lysithea tucked back into bed with him. “I recognize this,” she murmured. “From one of your dreams.” He just shut his eyes, a lump forming in this throat. It’d been a mistake to light them. He missed Almyra so much it ached. He loved Fódlan too. He just…

His parents were dead. It was the only explanation. He’d never imagined returning to Almyra without them waiting to greet him. 

* * *

His room was empty. For once, he requested to be alone. Just for an hour or two. Lysithea snapped at him that he wasn’t ‘allowed to wallow’. He didn’t plan to. But he needed to process it.

_ His parents.  _ He didn’t understand. They were both so strong. 

He clutched his dragonstone. This time, Begalta allowed him to draw from it. He did something he hadn’t done in a long time. If his friends caught him, they were going to skin him alive.

He climbed onto the roof. Blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he dangled his feet over the ledge. He looked up at the night sky — the  _ real _ night sky. 

_ “I didn’t really keep my promise to visit, now did I,” _ he whispered in Almyran, a nostalgic feeling of ridiculousness pouring into him. He swallowed it down. Unlike when he was a child, now he  _ knew _ someone was listening.  _ “Thanks to your help I’m still alive, but it wasn’t easy. Have you been watching? I must’ve shamed you a hundred times over. But hey. I’m alive.” _

How long had it been since he did this? Eleven years. Nearly half a lifetime ago. His Almyran was rusty and slow.  _ “You keep tabs on everyone with your mark, right? Do you know… is my father still alive?” _ He shook his head.  _ “That’s the wrong question to ask. Whatever happened, father’s gone. Mama is too. Nader can’t lead Almyra forever. Why wasn’t anyone else born with a King’s Mark? Why me? No, still the wrong question. I don’t know what to do.” _

Almyra might not be able to wait for him. Almyra might need him  _ now, _ and he was less than a month away from being crowned king of Fódlan. If he waltzed back to Almyra as a foreign king, it would go over  _ very  _ poorly. For him. And for future relations between his two homes.

_ “I need to go home before it’s too late. I have a duty to my people. I never meant to run from that… not permanently. But the people of Leicester, of Fódlan now, those are my people too. I can’t abandon them. Teach needs me, they can’t do this alone. I can’t abandon the people of my birthplace either.” _

Did the star twinkle at him? He couldn’t tell. As he did as a child, he interpreted it as the star saying _‘go on.’_ _“It’s not like I can go home. I can’t walk without this power that slowly kills me. I don’t know who to choose. I don’t want to choose.”_ He rested his chin on his knees. _“Yeah. This is pathetic, I know. I don’t want to accept that there_ is _no answer. I’ve pulled off miracle after miracle. I’ve survived death time and time again. I reversed demonic transformations. I won a war as the underdog. I got my soul sucked out and found my way back to my body. In comparison, this is such an easy thing.”_

_ “I just don’t know what to do. I never got to say goodbye to mama and papa. Guess this is karma for planning to die a coward.” _

“Claude?”

“Oh. Oh shit. I’m dead meat.”

“Claude! That better not be you on the roof, or so  _ help me Goddess—!” _

* * *

He ‘woke’ up to the sounds of the ocean.

“Claude must’ve fallen asleep,” Leonie said. “Pretty sure I was somewhere else a minute ago.”

He cracked open his eyes. Beside him, Lorenz stretched and sat up. The Rhodes coast stretched out as far as he could see. Standing before a familiar monument was Flayn. Flowers were clasped in her hands and littered the base of the monument.

“Oh. Apologies. It appears my dream is to host us on this night,” Flayn said to the stone.

Hilda jumped to her feet. “Oh, the beach! Now this is a vacation I can get behind!”

“Agreed,” Linhardt said. “As mentally jarring as these dream transitions are, I must admit it’s a nice change of pace.” He pulled out a fishing rod and lazily sent the bobber flying into the water.

“Nice idea, Lin!” Leonie popped over beside him, manifesting her own fishing rod. “Man, this is exactly what I need.”

Flayn finally turned away from the monument, smiling. “I wonder, can food be tasted within these lucid dreams? Should either of you catch a fish, I would be delighted to try one.”

Claude sat down under the shade of a tree. “Now  _ that _ would be nice. Just imagine the endless feasts we could make…” He was drooling at the very idea of it.

Hilda snickered as she spread out a blanket across the sand. “Why do I get the feeling Claude’s next dream will be in a banquet hall?”

“Sign me up!” Raphael shouted. “I’ll try to dream about a giant feast for ya Claude!”

“Quiet down Raphael, you’ll scare the fish.”

“Oh! Sorry!”

“Can dream-fish be scared away?” Claude asked. 

“Guess we’ll find out.”

These shared dreams were really growing on him. Just because he could, he began climbing up a tree. The dreams never lasted more than two hours, but each one was two hours of bliss. He’d seen Leonie’s village, Hilda’s bedroom, and Lorenz’s personal rose garden. Ignatz’s dreams were always beautiful landscapes from all over Fódlan. Linhardt and Lysithea’s dreams usually took place in a library (or occasionally an empty bakery). 

“Claude, come down from there,” Lorenz chided him.

“Why don’t you join me?” He kicked his feet up on a branch. “Come into my office, take a seat.” Perhaps it was just the nature of a dream, but Lorenz did actually join him. “Alright, go on, fill me in.”

They dove into what was becoming a new routine for them. Lorenz informed him of the day’s proceedings and Claude provided his thoughts and ideas on various matters. It wasn’t perfect, as Lorenz’s memory couldn’t provide any paperwork or any exact transcripts of a meeting. It was  _ something _ though.

“…and in turn, I received a letter from Sylvain. He liked your ‘wyvern airway’ idea, with a minor change: he argued that wyverns do poorly in the cold weather. Pegasi, however, have been bred for generations to withstand the climate. While the change would limit carrying capacity as well as halving all possible riders, he is interested in seeing the idea implemented. With so many damaged roads, he agreed it was the best short-term solution for supplying the countryside. He directed me to Ingrid for a new correspondence.”

Claude nodded along. “Ingrid, she’s a good choice. We could use someone overseeing transportation in general — I haven’t forgotten your reports about mismanaged shipments of grain disappearing through the cracks. Float a job offer to her for me. Send out some probes, test the waters a bit.” He then outlined an idea for a connected mail and delivery system utilizing both wyverns and pegasi. It would be tricky to ensure the right kind of animal took the right kinds of jobs, but with someone competent at the center of it all… 

They skipped between topics back and forth, hashing out rough logistics. Even though nothing physical would remain when the dream ended, at least he could  _ do something _ through Lorenz and the others. He was slowly being reintegrated back into the governance of both the lingering remnants of the army and Fódlan as a whole. Hilda’s role as reluctant quartermaster now filled the role of keeping stock of who had what on a national scale. She  _ bitterly _ complained about it whenever she gave him her tiny updates but he could tell she took pride in her work. 

“We caught something!”

He and Lorenz paused their discussion in order to watch their friends as they reeled in a fish the size of Flayn. As they pulled it out, Raphael grabbed the fish and held it above his head, cheering. These breaks might only be two hours long, but his friends all sorely deserved these happy dreams. 

Marianne sat him up. “Sorry everyone,” she whispered. A handful of groans echoed through the room. 

“Noooo… my fish…”

Marianne began her routine with him. “Lorenz, Hilda. I’m supposed to fetch you both as soon as Claude is done eating.”

“Mmmmrgh…” Hilda replied.

“It is the middle of the night,” Lorenz groaned. “Whatever it is can wait until dawn.”

“Judith says it’s urgent. The professor is already waiting for us.”

_ That _ caught his attention. Judith returned to her territory slightly before the assault on Shambhala (and hadn’t learned of his kidnapping, which saved him from a million lectures). He couldn’t think of any reason why she was back at Garreg Mach.

“Wha’s happen’n?” he asked as soon as he finished off his warm cream-mixture. 

“Shh, we’ll take care of it. Go back to sleep Claude.”

He shook his head, weakly fighting back as Marianne resettled him under the covers. “‘S ‘portant, I can help…”

“No you dummy.” Hilda manhandled him fully under the sheets more thoroughly than Marianne. “You can help best by not distracting us with worry. Go back to sleep.”

Lorenz (and his warmth) left the bed. “‘M almos’ bedder.” Warm milk  _ always _ made him sleepy though. Marianne always warmed up his meal at night to help him get back to sleep (not that he needed the extra nudge). 

“You still gotta rest buddy!” Raphael whisper-shouted, getting up from his cot and joining Claude on the bed.  _ Dammit,  _ Raphael gave such warm, enveloping cuddles… 

“Tell us what happened in the morning,” Leonie said through a yawn,  _ also _ climbing onto the bed and slipping underneath him.  _ No no no, completely unfair! Begalta, help!  _ He groaned under the weight of her bemused affection and chiding remarks on him needing rest.

“Or don’t tell us,” Linhardt said from somewhere on the floor. “Just  _ one _ month where nothing goes wrong is all I ask for. Now go back to sleep so  _ I _ can go back to sleep.”

“Y’guys… the worst…” he mumbled into Linhardt’s neck as the trifecta was completed. 

“Sleep well Claude. See you in two hours.”

There was no fighting it. Moments passed and he was back on the beach, ghostly and alone for now.  _ “Dammit.” _

He would be joined by others shortly, at least. According to Linhardt (backed up by the others), the closer any of them were to him while he was asleep, the easier it was for them to fall asleep with him. Marianne said she never felt any sleepier around him, just that when she decided to go to bed it was much faster than if she tried to sleep in her own room. Given he kept waking everyone up every two hours, the Deer more or less moved into his room completely at night. He wasn’t complaining about that. 

Sure enough, the world stabilized around him as more and more of his friends re-entered the dream. In a few hours when Hilda and Lorenz went back to bed, he was going to wring every last secret out of them.


	43. Soaring Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say 47 total chapters? I meant 46. Phew, I finished this story! It should all be released within ~two weeks. Ended up combining the last two chapters together for better story flow. The next chapter (44) is technically the 'last' of the story. 45 is going to be Endcards, so not a 'real' chapter. 46 is going to be the epilogue in which I intend to fully deliver on my 'angst with a happy ending' tag ;) Anyways, that's the roadmap for this fic. The end is nigh, my dear readers. Thank you everyone who stuck with the fic for this wild ride!

“Really Claude? The cardinal’s room?” Hilda dramatically sprawled on top of it. “I’m so sick of this room. Why can’t you dream up somewhere nice.”

He shrugged. “Welcome back. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Mostly Claude,” Linhardt corrected. “Please, keep your top secret information to yourself. No need to burden any of us with whatever catastrophe is no doubt unfolding.”

“Oh hush.” Leonie elbowed Linhardt. “Let’s hear it Hilda. Claude’s been driving himself _and_ us mad with his theorizing.”

“No one said you had to listen,” Claude grumbled, eyeing the chalkboard with his listed theories. It ranged from simple things at the top like _‘food shortages’, ‘excessive Judith nagging’, ‘Edelgard jailbreak’, ‘Shambhala survivors’_ to more serious theories at the bottom such as _‘alien invasion’, ‘foreign invasion’, ‘plague’, ‘moon falling out of the sky’, ‘undead army’, ‘sun broke’._

Hilda snorted as she eyed his list. “These are ridiculous.”

“Any of them correct?”

Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

He perked up. “Hah, take that Lysithea! I was right!”

Lysithea rolled her eyes. “That’s only due to the quantity of theories, not the quality.”

Hilda pointed to _‘Shambhala survivors’._ “We think that’s the case. Oh, and also that one.” She tapped _‘undead army.’_

There was a beat of silence. “Please be joking,” Ignatz whispered. 

Hilda filled them in. An army bearing the banner of the Crest of Flames was marching from the east and beelining to Garreg Mach. Any village in the way was wiped out, leaving countless casualties. The army was reported to be unnatural, the soldiers all bearing black eyes and an eerie silence. 

“My brother intercepted the army. He barely slowed them down and almost lost his life.” She sniffled, rubbing her eyes. “He’s in Daphnel. Judith said he’ll recover, but he was nearly dead when he made it. His entire story is insane. Holst fought a huge man that, and Judith _swears_ Holst wasn’t feverish when he said this, _wielded the sword of the creator!_ The professor still has their sword, so I don’t get how that’s possible. It doesn’t stop there either. He says other relics were used in the army too. Like Freikugel and Failnaught.”

“That’s impossible,” he weakly argued, rubbing at the place Begalta was resting on his chest in the waking world.

Linhardt spoke up. “If relics are from dragon bones, perhaps they crafted new relics using other bones.”

Hilda shrugged. “I don’t have a clue. The whole story is crazy! At the speed they’re marching, Judith thinks they’ll be here in a week.”

“A _week._ That’s such a small window to prepare…” Ignatz said.

“Marianne and Lorenz?” Claude asked about their two missing members.

“They’re with Seteth and the professor, discussing our next move.” Hilda wrapped her arms around herself. “Why is it that when everything is _finally_ calming down, it turns out there’s more to be done? It’s not fair.” Raphael scooped her up in a bear hug.

He paced in a circle. “We have about half our army still stationed nearby and we might be able to recall some of the forces we sent home if we act quickly. I’m certain Judith mobilized her own forces before riding on ahead. Goneril is out, I assume they’ve been decimated. The Imperial army has been mostly disbanded but Ferdinand and Dorothea should be notified. Faerghus might be able to spare some troops if we send them notice asap.”

“What of my family, Hilda?” Lysithea asked.

She slumped. “I think your parents are fine. A lot of the Ordealian countryside got hit hard though. I’m sorry. Casualties weren’t too bad from what I hear at least. People knew to get out of the way. The army’s in southern Gloucester right now. That’s where the worst casualties are.”

“Just great,” he muttered to himself. “We broke the seal. Now we’ve got an endless undead army. _Great._ Let’s hope this isn’t the end of days.”

“It’s not endless,” Hilda firmly stated. “Judith says Holst said it’s a small army, all things considered. But the soldiers are _really_ strong.”

“What about my village?” Leonie asked, shooting up. “Sauin village is in southern Gloucester!” She slammed her fist on the table. “Dammit! Just when one threat is gone, something worse pops up! We have to do something!”

“Reports say that Ordelian messengers rode ahead of the army and warned everyone in the warpath. It’s mostly the big cities that chose not to listen. I can’t guarantee anything, but maybe they’re okay.”

There was a beat of silence. Raphael opened his hug up to Leonie. 

“Hold on, something isn’t adding up.” Claude eyed Hilda. “Why did Holst go to Daphnel? Why not Riegan or Gloucester, or literally anywhere closer.”

“I… don’t actually know. Judith said that him and a couple of his men were brought into her household’s infirmary in the dead of night. Apparently no one stuck around to explain anything. Holst was unconscious on the battlefield and just woke up in Daphnel, so he’s no help either.”

“Right… well, until Teach and Seteth loop me in, here’s the plan…”

* * *

After a few lonely minutes in his dream he finally woke up. What felt like minutes was in truth two hours. When it was just him asleep, the dreams passed by quickly.

_Mmm… beef broth._

The jar drained empty and pulled away from his lips. He sighed and stared longingly after it. It took him a few beats to recognize someone was talking to him. 

“I see you’re doing a lot better, boy.” A hand brushed through his hair, tilting his head. It was a struggle to keep his fluttering eyelids open.

“Judith?”

“I heard you were injured at Shambhala. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

As much as he wanted to close his eyes, he refused the siren call of sleep. “It’s okay. Was complicated. So, an undead army with relic duplicates. Sounds like a lot of fun.” He fought to wake himself up, straining to push himself upright.

“Who told you that? I was told you’ve been sleeping since I got here.” Judith gripped his shoulder and helped him sit up. He refused to groan about how much everything ached.

“Heh. I have my ways. Are the scouts back with intel? When’ll your forces get here? Has Leonie finished her count of who we have in Garreg Mach? What about our supplies, has Hilda tallied those yet?”

“Slow down, you brat. You really must be doing better if you’re fretting this much.” 

He cracked a weak smile. “I’m needed now more than ever. What’s our situation?”

“Stable at the moment. Goddess, you’re worse than your grandfather was.” 

A low shiver began. He was _freezing_ and it didn’t help that his blankets hadn’t come with him when he sat up. Shivering was probably a good thing. He’d been too weak to shiver so far. It was going to wear him out for certain though. At least it might be good for his muscles… 

Judith ran her fingers through his hair again, pressing her palm on his forehead. She was no Golden Deer, but her palm was warm nonetheless. “You’re not sick, are you? You don’t feel feverish.”

“This is just my life now,” he groaned. She pulled up a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. It helped slightly, but not enough. He resigned himself to being cold. 

“You _do_ look better.”

He snorted. The out-of-body view of himself was engraved in his mind. “I look like a corpse.”

“Pah. You looked like a corpse two months ago. Now you just look like a scarecrow.”

“A scarecrow. Really goes to show how bad I was if that’s an improvement.”

“Yes,” she whispered. 

“Stop that. I ate solid food yesterday, you know.” To show off, he lifted his hand and brushed an annoying strand of hair out of his face. By the time his hand flopped limply onto the bed, it was shaking uncontrollably. “See? My muscles are coming back too. I’ll be better in no time.”

“Lady Judith?” Flayn entered the room. “You are requested in the cardinals room. We have scouts from the front.”

“I need to be there too,” he said, digging for permission. Begalta refused to let him use his dragonstone without permission. 

“You do _not,”_ Judith immediately shot down. They warred a staring match. Unfortunately he blinked first and yawned. 

“Fine. But when the united council gets together, I _will_ be there.” That just meant he needed to do more work in his sleep. It was going to be a long week.

* * *

Two armies gathered. He flew above his own. Teach stood tall at the front, Sword of the Creator glowing at their hip. 

Yellow and white mixed freely with blue and occasional red interspersed. Sylvain, Ashe, Ingrid, and Rodrigue pulled together an impressive amount of troops for such short notice. Hevring corps mixed with whatever was left of the Empire’s forces. It wasn’t a perfectly balanced front, but it was _Fódlan._ Fódlan united as one. And all it took was the potential end of days. A shame there hadn’t been more warning. He could have added a significant portion of Almyran green if only he’d had a month. No ‘proper’ Almyran warrior would miss a fight against Fódlan’s famous ancient king.

Rising above the crowd, he signaled down to Lysithea. As soon as he felt her spell to amplify his voice take hold, he began his speech. It was rehearsed of course. It flowed from his lips as his attention strayed to the unnatural army slowly closing the gap. He had to trust that the others prepared enough while he was bedbound. Despite his worries, he had faith that the day would end in victory.

“Today, we fight as one. We fight as Fódlan. Together we have the strength to see Fódlan’s new dawn!”

Cheers rose up throughout the army. _It was time._ Down below Teach raised the Sword of the Creator. “For Fódlan!”

**“For Fódlan!”**

With a roar the army charged. Beacons of red relic lights speckled throughout their army, matched by the darker beacons in the marching enemy’s lines. The battle began as all battles do — violently. The first wave immediately learned the poisonous swamp underfoot was to be avoided at all costs. 

Swooping down, he sniped a handful of enemies. Begalta’s heart hummed against his sternum, nudging his aim in perfect synergy. Diving low, he half leaned off his saddle to behead an undead soldier. He flinched against a tiny… sensation? _A detail._ There was a magic link between the soldiers and some other force. He leapt from his wyvern’s back, briefly touching the ground to examine the grey-skinned ‘corpse’. There was a thin ‘string’ that trailed off into the distance. Yanking off his gloves and collecting it between his fingers, he noted the familiarity to Begalta and relics in general. Whatever magic it was, it was Nabatean in origin. And that meant he could _manipulate_ it. With a twist of his wrist, he ‘snapped’ the ‘string’. The body beneath him evaporated into dust. 

“Holy hell, is that Areadbhar?!” Sylvain’s voice carried over the field.

Claude swung back onto his wyvern and saw that _yes,_ in fact, that _was_ Areadbhar, or at least some form of replica. Rodrigue blocked a strike from the impressive spear with his own relic. 

_“Are there other souls within…?”_ Begalta whispered. _“What of my bones…?”_

“A good question,” he mumbled back, eyeing the dark knight carefully. It was hard to see from a distance, but the wielder of the dark-Areadbhar also had a string trailing away from him. This cord was a lot thicker than the foot soldier. It would be tricky, but if he made skin contact he could end the fight in an instant. ‘Unraveling’ whatever kept the undead animated was as easy as drawing out power from his dragonstone.

“Claude!” Flayn shouted from below, pointing in the opposite direction. Following her outstretched finger, he cursed under his breath. Her warning was rendered unnecessary as the demonic bird threw back its head and howled. Its flock joined in shrieking. Sylvain and Rodrigue could handle the fake relic wielder, the birds posed a more imminent threat. He banked hard and met up with Teach.

“Those things are going to tear through our eastern flank!”

Teach nodded as they parried a strike, unraveling the Sword of the Creator to carve a path through the enemies. “Ignatz, Leonie, Marianne!”

“A bit busy!” Leonie shouted, her pegasus assisting Ingrid as the two chipped away at a knight with a dark copy of Luin. The fake relic wielders were strong enough to hold them both off simultaneously. 

“As soon as I can!” Ignatz called, also busy providing Hilda support as she matched Freikugel with dark-Freikugel. Marianne was with them, hands a solid glow as she cast healing spell after healing spell.

“I’ll take care of it,” he stated with a wink, flexing his fingers. “One touch from me is all it will take.”

“No, don’t!” Lysithea cried out, turning away from her brutalization of a masked mage. “Idiot, don’t you get it? They _know_ you can undo demonic transformations! This is a trap for you!”

Teach nodded. “At the very least they want to steal your attention.”

“You got any better ideas?” He spread his arms wide to the battlefield raging around them. “We’re barely holding our own, we don’t have the forces to deal with those birds! It’s gotta be me. I have Begalta with me, I won’t be caught off guard this time.”

“Problem!” Raphael gestured wildly at the sky. “Big, big problem!”

An even bigger demonic beast burst onto the scene, double or triple the size of the demonic birds. “Great. Now we’ve got a dozen birds and _that_ flying thing.”

Teach snatched his arm before he could get back onto his wyvern. “Look. That isn’t a demonic beast.”

As the giant thing flew closer, a grin formed on his lips. “Oh. _Oh,_ now that’s a good surprise.”

Macuil the Wind Caller crashed into one of the demonic birds, biting through its neck in one smooth motion. The demonic flock faced away from the army and swarmed the Wind Caller. Living up to his name, Macuil flew with the grace of a pegasus, easily evading the dozen birds. 

_“Wonder if big brother will stick around…”_

“Guess we both win this round, Teach. I’m off to join the spearhead. A certain someone is using a familiar bow of bones to decimate our fliers.” He spared one last look at Macuil. Something moved on the Nabatean’s back. The spec was someone _riding_ the Wind Caller. No, _two_ people. One of which raised their weapon and jumped onto a demonic bird, stabbing into its back and remarkably holding on. “Who the hell is insane enough to jump onto a demonic beast?”

“You.”

“I have special star anti-demon magic, I don’t count.”

Tearing his eyes away, he urged his wyvern back into the sky. A good half of the false-relic wielders were taken out. Raising Parthia to the sun, he called upon Begalta. She was already waiting for him. Silver glinted at the tip of his arrowhead. With a burst of power it exploded from his bow. _Soaring Star!_

He dove, watching the silver bolt hit its target. The undead archer using the fake-Failnaught staggered as the arrow pierced its neck. Begalta’s sword in hand, he lined up his strike to perfectly behead the creature. The archer straightened unnaturally, nocking its own arrow at him. Lips tugging into a smirk, his wyvern was faster than the archer’s bow. Half out of his saddle, parallel to the ground, he extended the executioner’s sword and— 

**Smiling green eyes, laughing, laughing, laughing—**

White hot pain in his shoulder brought him back to reality just in time to realize he was moments from hitting the ground. He missed the archer completely, got shot, and had slipped out of his saddle. Aw, hell— 

He tumbled against the dirt in an awkward half-roll. _“Wow_ that was dumb,” he hissed to himself, holding back a shout. Begalta’s sword and Parthia were both gone because he _dropped_ them during Begalta’s little freak-out. Now he was scraped up from falling off of his wyvern (luckily close to the ground, unluckily at high speed) and also had a broken arrow shaft in his shoulder.

_“Move!”_

His body rolled automatically, dodging an arrow that would have taken out his eye and also shoving the arrow shaft deeper into his shoulder. His vision went white even as his body leapt back to his feet. While he was struggling to catch his breath and breathe through the pain, Begalta was moving. “ _Sorry.”_ She barely warned him before rolling into a dive, collecting her sword and roughly jostling the arrow shaft. 

_‘Need to take it out,’_ he thought past the pain.

 _“No time.”_ Begalta blocked another oncoming arrow with her sword. She zipped between arrows, expertly dodging like she’d been born in his body. She closed the distance, sword poised to— 

**“Don’t look so glum, beast! Heh, it’s just a little blood.”**

He stumbled as full control slammed back into him. Unlike the nightmarish memory, _this_ Riegan wasn’t smiling. He held no expression at all. Yet it was still his face. The face of the man that—

The undead Riegan swept out a foot, nearly tripping him. The pain in his shoulder was enough to remind him to focus. Up close, he dropped his sword. _‘Begalta. Stay with me.’_ He grabbed the undead Riegan’s face. In that moment, it was simple to disconnect the creature from the power animating it — from _Nemesis._ The body went limp like a puppet. He slowly brought the body to the ground, mentally gripping onto the disconnected cord with a vice.

“That was anticlimactic. Not that I’m complaining.” Begalta buzzed at him in a barrage of emotion. “Yeah, yeah… not letting my guard down.”

An avalanche of information slammed into his brain as the foreign knowledge _finally_ kicked in. _A power source, both feeding and being fed off of._ The puppet was the dead body of the elite Riegan, filled to the brim with major crest blood. 

_Now that was an idea…_ It snowballed through his and Begalta’s thoughts. _It was possible._ He mulled it over as he ripped out the arrow in his shoulder. The overwhelming tide of information in his head muted the pain significantly. 

“Claude!” Hilda called out, racing over to him. “There you are. Most of the relic users have been neutralized. We—”

“Hold on. Hilda, do you trust me?”

Her expression soured. “You’re about to do something dumb, aren’t you.”

He grinned. “Depends. All I need you to do is cover me. Trust me?”

She readied Freikugel, groaning. “Unfortunately. This better not end in you exploding!”

_‘Ready to take a gamble, partner?’_

_“Always.”_

He ripped Begalta out of her makeshift necklace. In his other hand, he grabbed the dagger at his waist. With one plunge, he stabbed into the puppet’s heart. He jerked the dagger back and forth, digging a wide enough space. When he was satisfied with it, he sheathed the dagger. 

The transparent ‘cord’ he mentally still held was dark. As soon as he attached it to Begalta’s creststone, it lit up in a silver glow. _Just as he expected._ The puppet jerked. Without hesitation he plunged Begalta’s heart into the body. He yanked out a vial of silver he kept on his person, tearing out the cork with his teeth. Above Begalta’s heart, he drained the vial into the cut. The body seized. He planted both hands onto the puppet’s chest, keeping it down. The cut healed in all its silvery glory. 

He reached into himself, reached into the empty puppet, and grasped at the strands of crest-blood. Whatever monstrosity the puppet was, it _was_ once a living body, once the body of the elite Riegan. It was no replica. Major crest-blood still writhed through the body’s veins.

Silver light bloomed above his hands. The puppet’s golden moon joined his silver moon. Begalta was already spreading tendrils through the empty puppet, poking and prodding as she explored. He guided her, nudging the right connections by alien instinct. Hand in hand, he wove Begalta’s essence through the body, integrating her Nabatean heart in the reversal of de-constructing a demonic beast. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _In, and out. In, and out._

There was a connection — an energy — flowing both in and out of the body. Before, it acted like an extra vein connected to Nemesis both consuming and feeding from the crest-blood. Begalta’s heart had more than enough power to animate his own body — she could do the same for this one too.

_In, and out._

Begalta’s chest rose and fell in time with his own. Her pulse restarted, slow and thick at first. Green eyes opened. There was no more golden light, only twin silver moons of their matching crests. Sitting back, he double-checked his work. She was stable. What he didn’t expect was the slim cord of spider-silk between him and her. _Still connected._ _Heh,_ of course they were. 

A distant _boom_ reminded him they didn’t have all the time in the world. “How’s it feel?”

Her adam’s apple bobbed. In one jerky motion, she nodded. “I can — stand.” They both flinched at the sound of her voice. It was deeper now, unused for what was probably centuries. She cleared her throat. “Everything feels… similar. A bit numb. That’s good. It isn’t… overwhelming.”

He helped her up. She stumbled, but muscle memory seemed to kick in and she stood steady. He unclipped his yellow cape, tying it around her shoulders to prevent any friendly fire. She gave one languid stretch, bones popping all over as she bent down to pick up the fake-Failnaught. 

“I don’t need this.” She took his hand and guided it to the creststone in the fake Failnaught. He frowned at the quiet thing. It had _something_ in it. A Nabatean soul he assumed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t compatible to him like Begalta was. Pulling out the energy, it dissipated. The creststone cracked, crumbled, and turned to ash as the energy spread out into the sky. The bow itself remained.

 _Huh._ When everything was all over, he needed to figure out how to teach Begalta, Seteth, or Flayn that trick. There were a lot of trapped Nabatean souls to be freed for just him to take care of.

“About time I put these old bones to use.” The smile on Begalta’s new face reminded him of Teach’s old smiles when they were first beginning to display emotion. The bow flared silver.

“Hah! Ready for a test run?”

She nodded, smile growing into something natural. It was odd seeing his own smile on another face. “This body remembers how to fight. I won’t hold you back.”

“Are you almost done yet?!” Hilda shouted over her shoulder as she fought off two undead axe-users. Begalta pulled back the strings of the fake Failnaught. Effortlessly she fired two shots in a row, right through the eye of both Hilda’s opponents.

He whistled as he collected Begalta’s sword and Parthia. “You might just outperform _me._ We’re good now, Hilda!”

“We? What are you—” Hilda flinched, turning her axe on Begalta. “Claude, what the hell!”

“That’s rude,” Begalta said tonelessly. “I thought we bonded.”

Claude winked. “C’mon Hilda, you don’t recognize Begalta? I’ll have you know _neither_ of us blew up this time.”

“You, what, how—? You know what, okay, never mind, whatever. Hi Begalta!”

“Report back to Teach that no one is to harm Begalta. She isn’t one of our undead enemies. Can’t have any mistaken friendly fire.” Reluctantly, Hilda retreated.

The battlefield took priority. Whatever combination of muscle memory Begalta was using — between his own and the elite Riegan’s — she was _good._ Which was vital, because their position was in the process of being overrun. 

An undead soldier slipped past Begalta’s barrage of arrows. With her sword, he cut the corpse in half. His crest flashed silver, healing up his sluggishly bleeding shoulder. Begalta’s arrow whizzed past his neck and into an undead behind him. Pushing past her, he lunged his blade into the belly of another soldier. Back-to-back, they danced as one.

 _Duck._ He ducked as Begalta fired over his head. The circle of approaching enemies thinned. He switched to Parthia and aimed. _An inch to the left._ His aim was true. _Incoming._ He felt it, blindly whirling and grabbing the face of a soldier that snuck past their guard. With a snap, he undid its tether to life and watched it disintegrate. 

His eye caught on a pegasus in the sky. The Shield of Fraldarius glowed. His bow couldn’t quite reach, but Failnaught— 

_“Wind God,”_ Begalta murmured in Almyran. Her arrow glimmered silver as it tore through the sky and pierced the heart of the undead elite’s pegasus. 

Sword in hand again, he lashed out at Begalta. She ducked — as he knew she would — and his blade beheaded the axeman about to imbed its axe in her back. He flung his sword at her and caught Failnaught. She lunged forward and parried a blow meant for him as he fired point-blank and disintegrated the soldier. 

Together they tore through the endless wave of enemies. Nemesis was close enough to be heard bellowing out in anger, calling his remaining troops to his position. Unfortunately, he and Begalta were close to the ancient king’s position. _Oh well._ They fought with one mind, switching weapons every so often. 

_One elite left,_ he could feel it. _Soon._

With a flash the barrier around Nemesis shattered. Roaring, Nemesis advanced. He met Begalta’s eyes. Their army was a good distance away. His friends were with the army. They should retreat. Nemesis was a massive mountain of a man, wielder of a dark reflection of Teach’s blade. The ancient king easily took out Holst. What chance did Claude have?

_Plenty._

“No.” Begalta snatched his sleeve. “We’re retreating.”

“You are. I’m not.” He winked. “My crest and King’s Mark will keep me alive. No one else will be in danger. Nemesis won’t expect me.” His confident smokescreen of a smirk vanished. “Other than Teach, I’m the only one that can stand a chance against him. We don’t know where Teach is on the battlefield and there’s no time to find them. It has to be me.” All he had to do was take a hit, dish back a hit to activate his crest and King’s Mark, allow Begalta’s arrows to distract Nemesis, and touch the undead king’s flesh. From there he could unravel the abomination.

Begalta shook her head, patting his chest. “Your heart can’t take another sustained use of the King’s Mark. We must retreat.”

“There’s just a _chance_ my heart will give out. I’ll be fine so long as it’s quick. We don’t have time for anything else. Nemesis is coming for us. You see him, don’t you? He’s close. Retreating will give him a perfect shot at our backs with that blade of his. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. I have to do this for them. Help me. I’ll distract him while you line up the perfect shot. Aim for his arm or neck. My heart will be fine.”

“You don’t know that. I _know_ you don’t know that.” Her fingers squeezed against his armor. “I don’t know if I can restart your heart like this.” Eyes tracing the nearly invisible silver thread between them, she shook her head. “Retreat. Our—your friends can help you.” She placed his hand over her newly beating heart. “Look. _Look at it._ Look at what will happen if you die. It will unravel.”

“What? No, you’re not making se—” _Oh._ His lips parted as he traced the thin line between them. He couldn’t see it between himself and his friends, but he was certain a weaker thread connected them as well. If he died, the silver scar tissue over her heart would unravel. If he died, _all_ of the scar tissue over his friend’s bodies would unravel. “Why didn’t you _say anything?!” Because she only just realized._ Damn. Damned hells. If he died, all his friends would die too. _By the Stars. If he had died all those weeks ago…_ No, he couldn’t think of that now.

He pressed his lips thin. “I never planned to die here and I still don’t. We’re out of time. Just listen to my new plan.” Nemesis approached. He shot a look at Begalta, mentally shoving his thoughts at her. He wasn’t a praying man, but he was forced to pray she understood his jumbled thoughts. Facing Nemesis, he turned up his smirk to eleven. “Well, well. If it isn’t the big crusty corpse himself.”

**_Sword wrapping around him slicing and cutting and killing—_ **

“Stars damn it,” he hissed under his breath, leaping out of the way of Nemesis’ extended blade. Twirling his blade in his hand, he caught the pattern. Nemesis swiped out, extending it as far as possible. Just like in Begalta’s memories _. While the blade is extended, Nemesis is vulnerable._

“Insignificant whelp. Die.”

 _Left._ He dodged. _Good,_ Begalta was still watching the fight. _Duck. Right. Backstep. Backstep further!_ Body and reflexes in perfect sync, Nemesis couldn’t touch him. He couldn’t touch Nemesis either, and that was the problem. The ancient king dodged an arrow from Failnaught effortlessly. Begalta was right, _he knew she was right._ He couldn’t fight Nemesis alone, not even with Begalta. 

Good thing they weren’t alone.

In the middle of dodging another blow, the idea of an image wafted past his eyes. _Begalta found Hilda._ He angled his body to backstep in her direction. Beside Hilda was Lorenz, Marianne, and Lysithea. They would have to be enough. If he could bait the ancient king into an ambush, he stood a chance. Together, they stood a chance.

He skidded underneath another slash of the whip. “You’ve lost, bandit king! Your generals are defeated! You are nothing against the combined forces of Fódlan!” Looking through Begalta’s eye, Hilda’s head turned and she saw him. Her eyes flew wide as she began screaming orders out across the battlefield. _Perfect._

His back thumped against a rock. The ledge loomed above his head. Begalta’s spike of panic had to be brushed aside in order to focus. She’d been too busy looking for his allies to warn him that he was backing into a corner. Nemesis’ sword swept out once more. He could dodge left, right, or… 

_His allies were close enough._ Time to initiate his plan.

He rushed forward, diving and rolling under the slash of the whip-blade. Stone crumbled behind him. _Left, duck, left,_ **_right!_ ** Begalta acted as eyes in the back of his head as he dodged shrapnel faster than any normal human could.

He was almost close enough. All he needed was one touch to unravel the necromancy. 

_Duck duck_ **_duck!_ ** He was too close. Even as he slid into a dive, the blade inched towards his gut in slow motion. He braced himself for the incoming pain. 

_Clang!_

He rolled, remarkably free of pain. Nemesis’ blade was tangled with… “Teach!”

“Fighting without us again?” Seteth called from above, wyvern diving down to nick a glancing blow against Nemesis. 

“That was cutting it close!” Leonie shouted, joining Seteth’s hit-and-run tactic.

Lorenz rode up beside him. “Blasted fool. Why do I get the feeling you _purposely_ didn’t retreat?”

“I’ll have you know I’m exactly where I want to be. Retreated far enough away for the rest of you to lend a hand, and that’s exactly what I need. I knew you all would come running.”

Nemesis pulled his blade back, lashing out again. “Not so fast!” Raphael shouted, leaping forward to literally punch the blade away with his gauntlets. “No one hurts my friends!”

“You have no idea how much pent up rage I have!” Hilda screamed, Freikugel raised as she charged Nemesis with Teach. “This is for Holst, and for making me _work!”_ Nemesis blocked both axe and sword, staggering backwards.

“Now!” Ignatz called, releasing an arrow. His arrow was joined by Lysithea’s Hades, Marianne’s Aura, Lorenz’s Ragnarok, and Linhardt’s Excalibur. As they rained down on Nemesis, Begalta’s silver star fell from the heavens and pierced his shoulder. Nemesis shouted out. Claude saw his opportunity and took it, racing towards Hilda and Teach as the duo cut into Nemesis’ flesh.

“You think… mere mortal… weapons can… slay me…?” Nemesis growled. The undead king was unhindered by the sword in his gut, the arrow in his collarbone, or any of the overall damage to his body. The hulking man backhanded Hilda, sending her sprawling back. Nemesis raised his blade above his head, preparing to bring it down on Teach’s neck.

“Who needs weapons? All I need is my friends!” Grabbing Nemesis’ face, it occurred to him that the ancient king wasn’t as unstable as his underlings. It was more than pulling at a string to undo the knot — this _was_ the knot. Undoing Nemesis’ tether to life was going to take a few moments.

The clang of metal above his head informed him that Teach blocked him from being beheaded. He felt the wash of heat, the prickle of magic, the whizz of arrows, the flapping of wings. With Nemesis distracted, he felt it — he pulled and yanked — and the entire knot unraveled. Nemesis fell to one knee. With one last weak attempt to lash out, the ancient king fell to a pile of ash.

Silence. The hush of wind drifted past his ears, collecting a dusting of ash and whisking it away. Slowly the remains of Fódlan’s history scattered across the battlefield. Eyes following the direction of the wind he saw the rest of the army behind his back. The remaining undead forces joined their tether and collapsed into ash. He wondered if the ashes would remain or if they too might dissipate. Would a verdant field flourish from the remains? Or were the ashes as inhospitable to life as their former animated bodies?

“Is it over?” Flayn’s quiet voice broke the silence. 

“It’s over. Oh Goddess, it’s finally over.” Linhardt wasn’t the only one to flop onto the ground.

“We did it!” Raphael shouted, hauling the closest person (Lorenz) into a giant bear hug, swinging the noble in a circle.

“‘Who needs weapons, all I need is my friends’?” Hilda snickered and elbowed him. 

“It sounded a lot better in my head.”

“It’s true though, you lovable sap!” Leonie shouted in his ear, hauling him into a hug and twirling him in the air the same way Raphael was doing to Lorenz. “It’s finally over!”

“Haha, okay, put me down already!”

Cheers rang out from the army as soldiers began celebrating. Straightening his back, he held up his blade, gesturing Teach to do the same. He took a deep breath and shouted, the wind delivering his voice to Fódlan’s army. “History will look back on today as the beginning of Fódlan’s new dawn! Today, we begin a new chapter for Fódlan!” 

The army cheered even louder. _“For Fódlan! Fódlan’s new dawn!”_

“Now what?” Begalta’s soft timber crackled beside him.

He pulled away from his friends and wrapped a side-hug around Begalta. “Now, I introduce my friend Begalta to the rest of my friends.”

Seteth and Flayn (and Linhardt) launched a barrage of questions to him at the same time that Raphael enthusiastically welcomed Begalta to ‘being alive again’. The big man asked her about her favorite foods, which Begalta couldn’t remember (aside from milk which she declared she despised).

“The celebration feast will wrap perfectly together with your coronation,” Lorenz stated, looking proud of himself. “Perhaps we should hasten the date. In fact, it would be poetic to happen now.”

His stomach sank. _Out of time._

Seteth cleared his throat. “The informal ceremony can take place now, if that is your wish. The sooner it happens, the sooner Fódlan can be restored. Lorenz is correct. Doing it now will lend further credence to your joint rule.”

“The king is dead, long live the king.” Leonie slugged his shoulder, then slugged Teach. “Long live our two rulers! Can’t get any better than crowning our two saints on the field of Nemesis’ defeat!”

Seteth and Leonie were right — as his friends all clamored to agree with. Even Teach nodded their support. Eyeing his emaciated hand, he knew there was nothing he could do. He was too weak to go home. But Almyra _needed_ him. He turned east, longing to cross the distantly visible mountains of the Throat.

 _“You must tell them,”_ Begalta whispered in his head, gently squeezing his hand. He nodded. She was right.

“I have a confession,” he began. “I’ve been keeping a secret from you all.”

His words received snickers and eyerolls. Hilda knocked against his shoulder. “Well, out with it. Nothing you can say can shock us anymore.”

“Heh. That sounds like a challenge.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… I’m half-Almyran.”

“No offense but you told us that a week ago.”

“That’s not the secret. It’s…”

“Goddess’ sake!” Hilda snapped, throwing up her hands. “Just spit it out. We’re not going to abandon you! What could be more of a secret than everything else you’ve told us? What, are you gonna say you’re an alien from space? Are you gonna say you have a secret lover? Are you gonna say you have a secret evil twin? Are you gonna say you’re secretly part of an evil cult that _isn’t_ the evil cult we just destroyed? Are you gonna say you’ve always had a dream of being a pottery-maker, and you’ve decided you really really want to do that instead of becoming king? Are you gonna say you’re a secret prince? Are you—”

“That last one.”

“—gonna say, uh, what?” 

“I’m the heir to Almyra. My father’s the king. I’m the prince.”

Silence.

“Ta-da. My big secret. Though technically, I am related to a dragon that came from space? But it’s very distant, and technically Crest blood is probably the same, you all know about that. So anyways, I should, uh, go do leader-man stuff, I’ll just—”

“You’re not going anywhere until I give you a hug!” Raphael cried, making good on his words immediately. 

Lorenz slapped his forehead with a meaty smack. “Of _Goddess-damned_ course you’re a prince! Why am I surprised! Of course you had one last surprise up your sleeve!”

“And that’s why you don’t want to be ruler of Fódlan,” Lysithea finished. “It’s a conflict of interest.”

“Being _Duke of Riegan_ is already a conflict of interest,” Lorenz muttered.

He nodded. “I can’t go home the way I am now.” He ruefully smiled, splaying his thin, veiny hands. “As you all love to remind me I can’t function on my own. But my parents are dead and I’m Almyra’s only heir. Nader can only act as regent for so long before the unrest leads to a power struggle. If I don’t go home soon, there will be a civil-war.”

“This is what has had you so wound up recently,” Flayn quietly said.

“Heh, I mean, Nemesis didn’t help. But, yeah. There’s no good solution.”

“Can’t you just, like, send Nader a letter saying you’re alive and still a proper heir and all that nonsense, but that he’s in charge until you get back? Just say you’ve been conquering Fódlan or something. Isn’t that the sort of thing Almyrans find impressive?”

He boggled Hilda. “You’re suggesting I trick Almyra into believing I conquered Fódlan.”

“Well, yeah! Would that work? You’re all about unity and stuff, right? What could possibly be more unifying than Almyra’s future king also being Fódlan’s king!” Her expression scrunched. “Okay, maybe too much weird stuff has been happening. Never thought I’d say _that_ sentence.”

He stared off into the distance. “You know… maybe? Stars, how did I not think of that?!” His claim on the throne wasn’t absolute. However, a massive military victory would solidify his position. _Conquering Fódlan_ would win him _massive_ points. Maybe, just maybe, that would buy him enough time to recover.

“This is what friends are for,” Begalta informed him.

“You guys seriously aren’t angry that I hid my royal status from you all?”

Raphael shrugged. “You’re still Claude.”

Leonie jerked her thumb at Begalta. “You literally resurrected a millennia-dead dragon spur of the moment _during a battle._ You could tell me you spent your childhood on the moon and I would believe you.” She paused. “Did you…?”

“Nope.”

“Should we refer to you as ‘Your Highness’ now?” Ignatz asked.

“Absolutely not.”

Teach steadily gripped his shoulder. “I can rule alone. You don’t need to be crowned.”

He shook his head. “No, you clearly still need me. With Hilda’s plan, I can buy myself a year or two. I can spin my tenure in Fódlan as a positive. I’ll do it.” His stomach still churned, but what choice did he have? Better to spend his days recovering as king doing good for the people instead of languishing away in his bed doing nothing. He was stuck in Fódlan regardless, might as well be a king at the same time. So long as he spun the situation correctly… maybe leveraging his ‘miraculous’ survival of the King’s Mark. The Almyran soldiers that witnessed his ‘final battle’ at Fort Merceus would be loyal to him, ‘half-blood’ or not.

Seteth cleared his throat. “Are you certain? If so, I can begin the informal ceremony now.”

He nodded. “The sooner it's done, the sooner Teach and I have proper authority to _actually_ implement everything we plan to. And you’re right — doing it now with the defeat of Nemesis is symbolic. It’ll be great for the history books.”

“You’re just hoping people stop calling you a saint,” Lysithea teased.

In short order, Seteth gave a little speech about something-or-other as he and Teach knelt. Ceremonial nonsense was spoken, but Claude couldn’t focus on it. He and Teach both vowed to serve Fódlan for as long as they held their crowns.

“Now rise, Monarchs Byleth Eisner and Claude von Riegan.”

His friends gathered around him and cheered. He gave them all an over-the-top bow. “I suppose we should greet our subjects now. I’m going to be nauseous in an hour or two.”

Teach nodded. “There is much to be done.” They faced the army and offered him their hand. “Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Seteth double-take. With a whispered apology Seteth and Flayn peeled off. _Right._ Macuil. The feathery dragon was resting far away from the army, only barely visible. 

“You should go,” he told Begalta. _She wanted to see Macuil again,_ he felt it.

“No. I’m staying by your side.” She took his other hand and squeezed. “Together, Starlight?”

“Yes. Together, partner.”


End file.
